


Daybreak: A Dawn In Three Parts

by ProneToRelapse



Series: Dusk and Dawn [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/M, Festivals, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Fluff and Humor, Magic, Post-Timeskip, Romance, Smut, Swordfighting, War, Wyverns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: “We will be striking down farmhands and merchants, then,” Byleth says and no trace of her disgust at the prospect makes its way into her tone. “It means the losses to our own ranks will be minimal. Perhaps that will help me sleep at night.”The new Dawn is taking an awfully long time to break. Derdriu is under siege, Byleth is exhausted, and Claude? Claude is late.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: Dusk and Dawn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644916
Comments: 19
Kudos: 185





	1. Part One: Grey Clouds. Pegasus Moon

**Author's Note:**

> What’s up, I’m gay, I’m new in town, and I would die for Claude Von Riegan. 
> 
> Spoilers for... Honestly, just _everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are, unfortunately, my own. I’ve combed this fic several times but at this point I can’t see any errors and I’m sure there are plenty. If you spot one, congratulations, you saw what I could not, but please just back away slowly and spare a fond thought for an author exhausted on all planes of existence.

_1187, 13th of the Pegasus Moon,_

_To the attention of Her Resplendent Majesty, Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, Queen of all United Fódlan,_

_Hey, Teach!_

_I’d forgotten how dull a life at court can be, quite honestly. No matter which way I turn, there's another twenty nobles or courtiers to butter up, schemes to avoid, disidents to quiet. It makes me almost nostalgic for war, honestly. As bad as that sounds, I think I’d almost prefer being on an actual battlefield again. At least everyone there is upfront about how much they want me dead._

_It’s not all bad. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be home. I missed the markets most of all, I think. The FOOD!! It’s wonderful, spices in every colour of the rainbow, your mouth doesn’t stop watering from the second you step into the marketplace. There are so many things I want to share with you, I want you to see all of them._

_Mom and Dad send their love and keep hounding me about bringing you to meet them. Like I need reminding that you should be by my side. But there’s still work to be done, and as much as I miss you, I can’t risk leaving now, with things as tenuous as they are. I sincerely hope you can forgive me._

_Mom said I should send a gift, even offered to have some choice jewels brought up from the vaults for me to ply you with with so that I might curry your favour. I thought about it, but I think my gift suits your oh-so-refined tastes much better, my esteemed Professor._

_Let me know what you think. Let me know everything. Write back soon or I fear I may actually go mad._

_Look to the stars and know I’ll be doing the same and thinking of you._

_Eternally yours,_

_Claude._

_P.S, It feels weird signing my name. Surely you know my handwriting by now, you spent years grading my work. Also who else is sending you love letters like these? Are you beating off hoards of admirers in my absence?_

_...Don’t answer that._

  
  


_xXx_

  
  


_—_

  
  


An hour until dawn and the sky is dark with the threat of rain, heavy clouds blotting out the light of the rising sun and throwing such deep shadows that the morning is stopped from breaking. It doesn’t bode well for their ground-based ranks, extra steps will need to be taken to combat this inconvenient turn of events, and Byleth can only hope that the opposition is less prepared than they are. 

She’s already dispatched a messenger to the barracks, had watched the fleet-footed young woman ghost between silent tents towards the pegasi ranks to pass on the order for the farrier to add studs to the cavalry’s shoes for when the ground is slick with blood and rain. She anticipates a harsh battle, a difficult one, but victory is already a forgone conclusion. There is no other option. 

She should probably be resting, or at least giving Lorenz’s tactical dossiers another look over. It’s probably foolish to trust him too much, but in the absence of their master tactician, she has little choice otherwise. That’s a little disingenuous of her; Lorenz has long since earned her confidence at this point, and he has yet to lead them astray so in light of that she’ll afford him this leniency with trust, and will allow herself a stolen moment of quiet before the storm literally - and figuratively - breaks. 

Though unseen through the clouds, dawn does finally break proper and it is signified by the sounds of their encampment coming to life, the clank of armour and weaponry and the low susurrous of voices carrying over to Byleth’s place on the hill in waves on the eddies of a chill breeze. She stays as long as she can, eyes fixed on the valley below and the loose but numerous ranks of the rebels they’ve come to quell. 

She tries hard not to let her heart join them. Not so long ago she had been like them, a single player in a much larger game, an insignificant pawn trying desperately to rise against an oppressive force. She doesn’t like feeling like a tyrant and the festering presence of Imperial supporters is like an infected wound in her side. Every time she moves she is reminded of it; cannot escape it no matter which way she turns. It is a blight on Fódlan’s otherwise bright new era of peace. It is the obstacle they must overcome and Byleth hates that she is now the oppressive force trying to stamp down uprisers who firmly believe what they’re fighting for is just and right. 

Maybe if she had been on another side in this war things would have been different. 

It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

Byleth finally turns away from the valley bordering Hyrm and Airmid, away from the field that will be littered with bodies in just a few short hours. She turns her back on it until she is ready to lead the charge and returns to her pavilion to prepare herself. Physically, she is already equipped for war. She’s been clad in her armour since long before dawn when sleep refused to come easily, sword strapped to her waist and bow at her back, but she’ll need a little more time before she is ready to step onto the battlefield again. The Ashen Demon still sleeps inside her, but the longer she spends as just _Byleth_ , Queen and Archbishop, professor and teacher and friend, the further away it seems and the harder it becomes to wake it. She’s not unhappy about that and she longs for the day she forgets how to become that person altogether. But while peace is still a fragile, tiny thing, easily broken, she will need to keep that persona close. 

Even if she is beginning to hate who she used to be. 

Outside her pavilion, Seteth is waiting. He performs obeisance in his careful, practiced way and that is how Byleth knows he has come to her with news and not as a friend. She nods and throws back the flap of her pavilion and ushers him inside. He follows at once and as soon as the flap flutters closed behind them, Byleth gestures for him to speak. His expression is carefully blank, respectful, and he makes his report with frank efficiency. 

“Our scouts returned just before dawn,” he tells her stepping over to the map spread across the central table. He trails a finger across the line on the map depicting the valley they will have scarred with bloodshed by noon. “Their ranks are considerable but disorganised. They seem to have no formal commanders that we have been able to identify. They have rallied behind shared ideals rather than a concrete structure of hierarchy.”

Byleth turns her back to him, reaching for her coronet and placing it gently atop her head with slow movements. A crown is too unwieldy, but some signifier of her status she must wear, or so she’s told. This is the difference between her army and theirs. She is the figurehead of her people. She is their leader. The opposition’s is a ghost.

“We will be striking down farmhands and merchants, then,” Byleth says and no trace of her disgust at the prospect makes its way into her tone. “It means the losses to our own ranks will be minimal. Perhaps that will help me sleep at night.”

“Majesty,” Seteth says and it almost sounds like a reprimand which amuses her. “It behooves me to tell you that this was never going to be a just venture. Righteous, certainly. For the greater good, absolutely. But fair? No. No, it is not an easy path you walk, but it is your path nonetheless. We do what we must in service to our people.”

“Pretty words, Seteth.” Byleth turns to face him slowly, head held high despite the weight of her coronet. “Your pious speech is better suited to the faithful in our ranks. You’ll find no deference to divine will from me. Not now.”

She adores him, truly. Seteth is a close friend and has been for many years, but his relentless piety is tiring, even to Byleth herself who houses the heart of a Goddess in her breast. She values his wisdom when it is not tinged with the reverence of his worship and he knows that. It’s why she softens at the look in his eyes that tells her he finds the upcoming battle just as vile as she does. 

“Call it duty if you must,” Byleth relents with a sigh. “But don’t expect me to do the same. Peace was never going to be won easily. I’m just tired.”

“I know,” Seteth murmurs. “I know.” He straightens and wipes a hand over his face. He looks older now than when they met, obviously, but she’s never seen him wear his age as plainly as he does now. His temples are greying and there are lines in his face she cannot remember seeing before. 

“As you say,” Byleth says in an attempt to be kind, “for the greater good. Goddess permitting we will see an end to the battle before nightfall and it will be just one hellish day in an otherwise plentiful year of growth.”

Seteth nods gratefully and departs with a low bow. Byleth stands there for a long moment and lets herself ache for the families she will be destroying in short order. For this, she will never forgive Edelgard. For this, she will never forgive Rhea. 

Thus unsettled, Byleth chooses her moment to slip out of her pavilion unseen, while her army is mustering and preparing she heads through the rows of tents and carts to the temporary pens that house their mounts. Separate from the pegasi and the horses are the battalion wyverns and further from them is a lone golden creature that belongs to her alone. It is a magnificent beast - pure Almyran stock and fitted with resplendent saddlery in the colours of Fódlan’s monarchy - and as she approaches the Royal wyvern raises his regal head and fixes her with his deep emerald gaze. 

“Reus,” she calls to him and he lets out a low purr and snakes his great head down to her so she can pet the soft scales under his jaw, scratching gently in a way that makes him wriggle with delight. His breath is hot against her face, tinged with the acrid scent of blood, raw meat and smoke, but she doesn’t mind it. She loves this great beast for his nature, not in spite of it. He, at least, does not hide what he is. 

“Are you ready to fly with me?” She asks, leaning her forehead against his snout. He huffs once in response and she manages a faint smile. “Lend me your strength so that I don’t flee with you to the stars.”

Reus rumbles and flares his wings as though he wants to wrap them around her. He had been a gift from the partner of Byleth’s mind and heart, a tiny drakeling than shone like a coiffer of golden coins in sunlight, and at the sight of him Byleth had been instantly bewitched and so had he in kind. There is no one he responds to as well as he does Byleth, no one else’s commands he will follow. He is her most loyal supporter, at least out of all who currently reside in Fódlan. 

The air is split suddenly with the deep call of a mustering horn and Byleth’s body reacts before her mind does. In one sinuous movement Reus extends a leg for Byleth to step onto as she vaults into the saddle on his back and she takes the reigns that are fastened to his antlers as he launches himself skyward and towards the sound of the horn. At the sight of her the soldiers below let out howls and cheers, clanging swords and spears against shields and waving to her in loyal support and respect. Byleth waves as Reus glides down to the hill she had been standing on at dawn and waiting for her are her friends, ready for battle and each wearing the same grim mask of resolution.

Reus lands, barely jostling Byleth in the saddle and he thrums beneath her with a visceral eagerness for the hunt to begin. She envies him that; the ease of instinct, the rush that precedes a hunt, but she knows if she took joy in battle she would not be fit to rule. Battle lust is a dangerous thing, and though Byleth has definitely experienced fierce joy in the heat of battle, it is not the bloodshed that excites her. 

“On your signal,” Lorenz says almost boredly, patting his mount’s armoured neck absently. Despite his affectation, his jaw is tight and there is a sheen of perspiration at his temples that gives away his unease. Beside him Leonie is fierce and determined and she nods at Byleth before lowering the visor on her helmet. 

Byleth nods to each of her assembled friends, Hilda and Flayn atop their pegasi, Seteth and Hilda astride their wyverns. Raphael and Ignatz nod at her too and she dips her head in acknowledgment before sending them away to their positions. Ignatz will lead the archers with Shamir. Raphael will lead the foot soldiers. Leonie and Lorenz will charge with the cavalry. Hilda will guide the pegasi. Seteth and Cyril will follow Byleth as she leads the wyverns in the aerial onslaught to rain arrows down from above. Lysithea and Marianne will guide their mages and all of them have their orders, given directly by Byleth during their council three nights past. They are her most trusted generals and she knows each of them will support her with all they have, even as the reality of what they are about to do leaves a bitter taste in all of their mouths. 

Only one of them, one of her beloved Golden Deer, is missing. 

Her heart throbs. 

“Be well,” she tells them all and draws her sword, raising it heavenward and roaring with all the strength in her body and the divinity in her blood. 

_“To me!”_ She cries as Reus flares his great wings and her forces tip over the precipice toward the valley below. 

  
  


—

_1187, 23rd of the Pegasus Moon,_

_For the attention of The Most Esteemed Duke Reigan, Master Tactician, Schemer of Schemes, and Pain in My Royal Backside,_

_Your penmanship certainly hasn’t improved despite my constant, tiring efforts. A solid C+, you really don’t need to press the quill so hard to the parchment, I can hardly decipher the words on the second page, or are you developing some new type of cypher in case of interception?_

_Your letter arrived just when I needed it most. Winter has arrived fully and the nights are cold and even the ridiculously large fireplaces in this estate can’t seem to warm me. I’d be afraid I would be falling ill if I could remember a time in my life I’ve ever succumbed to more than a cough. It seems, as much as I pretend otherwise, your absence is being felt more keenly than I anticipated._

_Your gift was very well received, you crafty man, just as you knew it would be. I never knew Almyran craftmanship was so fine. The blade is perfectly balanced and after sparring with it for a few hours I fear I’ll never be able to use another, lesser blade ever again. Nothing compares to it. The whetstone was a nice touch. Engraved, Claude? You sentimental thing._

_I have no doubt, dearest, that you are the talk of the kingdom and I am certain you are winning over the hearts and minds of the Almyran people just as surely as you won mine. You are, after all, quite the silver-tongued devil when you want to be._

_Hilda passes on her regards, as do the others. Send my best wishes to your parents as well and tell them that I will visit as soon as you are done with your schemes. Fódlan is well, as well as I’ve ever seen her, and it is heartening to see the fruits of our efforts after such arduous work, especially when it helps to take the sting out of the distance between us._

_I’ve enclosed a trade proposal I received from the Regent of Sreng. If you could give it a look over and advise on how I should reply I would be most grateful. He won’t budge on the percentage of the yield he wants from the silver mines of Gautier, and if I have to struggle through one more word of his borderline illiterate trade requests I’m afraid I’ll plunge our kingdom into war again._

_I have also enclosed a gift._

_The stars are shining doubly bright as I write this. I miss you._

_Yours entirely,_

_Byleth_

_P.S, You misspelled dissidents on page one. Honestly, Claude, what am I to do with you?_

_P.P.S, The admirers are redoubling their efforts._

  
  


_xXx_

  
  


—

  
  


They outmatch the opposition in skill, but are immediately overwhelmed by the viciousness of the onslaught that greets them. Byleth had not underestimated what would meet them, but she had not been prepared for the sheer _savagery_ of the fighters that made up the ranks of their enemies. In the eyes of all she cuts down she sees a desperation she has never seen the like of before, a crazed kind of fire that makes their attacks almost feral, vicious in a way that is unusually cruel. She sees in them a fanatical desire to cause as much pain as possible before death takes them and she is immediately struck with the crushing knowledge that they will lose more than they thought they would. 

These Imperial remnants have a pain in their hearts that guides their blows, that drives them forward in waves no matter how many of them fall. Byleth sees first hand the wounds that the division between the Empire and the Church has caused, the injuries that Edelgard and Rhea have left behind and Byleth is _furious_ , cursing their memories as she is forced to end life after life, snuffing them out like errant breaths to candle flames. She retreats to the air with a harsh cry that Reus obeys instantly, circling high above the writhing mass of bloodshed the battlefield has become. She sheaths her sword that is wet already with gore and draws her bow, easing Reus into a steady glide with a clench of her thighs so she can aim easily. 

Hours have passed and the clouds above them grow heavier by the minute and thunder has begun to rumble closer and closer the longer they fight. Byleth draws and releases until her quiver is empty and she is forced to descend again with sword drawn and the metal sings with each swift swipe of the biting blade. Reus roars with fierce joy beneath her, claws and fangs rending enemies her sword cannot reach and in the distance she sees the sheet of rain that begins to fall until it is directly upon them and the heavens split apart with an almighty crash of lightning.

“Descend!” Byleth shouts, two fingers pressed to her throat so she can amplify her voice with magic. Fiercely she calls to her aerial guard, “descend at once, we cannot continue to fight from the air, the lightning will strike us!”

In a united wave the wyvern corps and the pegasi crash towards the ground, arrows and spears flying with deadly precision. But for every foe they fell, another two take their place, and Byleth knows they cannot carry on like this for much longer. She needs to look for her Generals, they need to form up, to strike a critical blow that will cripple the opposition before they lose too much ground. 

Reus lets out an almighty bellow and his body shudders, banking hard to the right. Byleth grips the reins tightly to avoid being thrown off and when she looks down all the blood leaves her face in a rush that makes her dizzy with fear. 

A spear has pierced Reus’ side beneath the joint of his left wing, jutting out grotesquely at a sickening angle. Byleth cries out with him as though his pain is her own, and channels as much energy into him as she can to guide him over to the mages’ ranks. They part for them at once so that Reus can land but he crashes to the ground with enough force that Byleth is thrown from his back. She hits the sodden earth hard and gasps as the air is knocked out of her, coronet flying off of her head and landing somewhere unseen. She cares not for it and shoves away the mages that try to assist her, scrambling over to Reus’ prone form. 

“Heal him!” She yells at the nearest mages though they are already set to the task, channeling light and life into Reus’ body as they remove the spear from his flesh. He grunts and growls and thrashes his tail until Byleth pulls his great head into her lap, stroking his snout and trying to comfort him as best she can until the mages are complete and his torn flesh is whole once more. 

“Professor!” Marianne shouts over the hiss of the rain. “Professor, you need to hear this!”

Though unwilling to leave Reus, Byleth forces herself to move away and struggles to her feet to join Marianne and Lysithea, the latter of whom is trying in vain to staunch a heavy nosebleed. 

“There’s something in them,” Lysithea says thickly, stifled by blood and rain. The front of her white robes are stained crimson, though how much of that blood is her own Byleth cannot tell. “In the soldiers. Some kind of toxin that’s whipping them into a violent frenzy. It’s magical in nature, that’s all we know, but that’s what has them so bloodthirsty.”

“Can we counter it?” Byleth demands, raising an arm to shield her eyes from the rain. Another crash of thunder illuminates the battlefield in a stroke of brilliant white. 

“We’re trying,” Marianne says. She looks wild-eyed with adrenaline and fear. “But we don’t know the source yet. It can’t be a single mage, no one could handle channeling that much energy. It has to be a group of them, but so far our efforts to scry them have failed. But there’s no way to hide the kind of magical energy that would emit. Something must be shielding them.”

_What would you do? How would you deal with this?_

“Stop searching for large bursts of magical energy,” Byleth orders. “Look for a vacuum in their ranks— Anywhere that has an absence of energy. When you find it, call for me.” She draws her sword once more and Reus, bolstered by magic, shoves mages aside with his wings as he lumbers over to her. Once back in the saddle, Byleth urges him to take wing again, swirling onto the sky and gliding low over the heads of the infantry units below. The air thrums with the scent of ozone and sulphur, sparking along the exposed skin of her face like static. There’s too much magic in the air, residual energy from offensive and defensive spells alike. It wasn’t meant to be like this. They weren’t meant to be losing. 

With a blistering cry, Byleth descends back into the fray once more. She’s come too far to lose Fódlan now. 

But the rain does not relent and neither do their enemies. Seteth had said they possessed no formal chain of command and that much is true. They’re disorganised and untrained but they make up for that shortcoming in sheer brute force. And now that Byleth knows they have magic bolstering their bloodlust, she can see it in the eyes of every foe she cuts down. The same glazed, white eyes that don’t appear to see the forces attempting to repel them, hacking and slashing indiscriminately at whomever crosses their path. Byleth beheads an axeman with a clean swipe between the armor at his chest and neck and when his head rolls across the muddy ground, those ghastly white eyes stare up through her, trapped forever in death in a feral grimace of pain and rage. 

They may not possess a commander, but _someone_ is commanding these puppets and Byleth will find out who before she loses anyone else. It’s just like Remire village. It’s all happening again. 

Marianne and Lysithea are nearby, in consciousness if not in body. She can feel the unique wisps of their magical energy thrumming through the air charged by lightning, can feel their presence as they sweep the battlefield for those responsible for the empty husks besieging them. They’ve yet to contact Byleth with any concrete evidence, but their presence is reassuring all the same. Every so often Marianne’s consciousness will brush Byleth’s and a thread of rejuvenating energy will replenish her aching muscles. 

Even with that energy bolstering her flagging body, Byleth cannot fight on much longer. All around her bodies are falling, friends, foes, subjects, and soldiers. Above her Seteth is trapped in fierce lance-lock with another wyvern rider, his russet beast snapping at every exposed scrap of flesh she can reach. Byleth has Reus thrash his mighty tail to clear a space for her to draw her bow, and with a heavy shot and careful aim she shoots Seteth’s opponent through the eye, sending her slumping forward in the saddle and giving him the upper hand to cast her and her wyvern down to the battlefield where their bodies are quickly overrun by foot soldiers. It is an undignified way to die, but Byleth cannot spare regret now. Seteth turns his wyvern sharply, nodding to Byleth in thanks before soaring away. 

She senses the javelin before she sees it, distracted as she is by watching her friend depart, making sure no stray enemies catch him as he glides towards the mages to tend to his wyvern’s injuries. The air hums and it’s Lysithea’s mental cry of _Byleth, to your right!_ that alerts her quickly enough that she whirls to one side, dodging the steel projectile by a hair’s breadth. Adrenaline ripples through her body, blood boiling with it as she stares at the weapon now buried in the ground where she was standing seconds ago. She exhales shakily and steps towards Reus, ready to retreat a few hundred yards to regroup and redouble their onslaught. 

The second javelin, however, finds its mark. 

Like a knife through butter, the honed point of the spear shears easily through Byleth’s flesh, splitting the skin and muscle beneath it like overripe fruit. It catches her between neck and pauldron, a stupidly lucky shot, charged by magic and cast unerringly. There’s no pain but the force of it sends Byleth to her knees, her breath stolen and strength sapped along with it. 

Reus _roars_. Byleth doesn’t see his rampage but the ground beneath her thunders with the force of his rage, and then there are hands grabbing at her and she curses herself for not appointing a regent in her place. She can only hope that when the letter her friends will write reaches its destination, he will come home and he will know what to do in her place. She hopes fervently their friends will guide him as well as they guided her. She dearly wishes that—

“Steady, Raphael! She’s losing blood fast, set her down gently!”

“I’ve got her! Leonie—“

“Clear the pallet! Lysithea, my pouch—“

“Easy now, did anyone see the weapon that hit her?”

“I have it— Don’t touch it, it seems to be cursed.”

“Steady— Hold on, Professor! _Byleth!_ Hold on, do you hear me?”

_I hear you,_ Byleth thinks hazily. She cannot form the words, something hot and bitter filling her mouth, choking her, spilling out through her nose. With a wet, wrenching cough, she lists to the side and spews the acrid mouthful onto the ground and convulses as she moves, unable to control the shuddering wracking her body and rattling her armour like the shaking of chains. 

“Shit, _shit!”_ Someone cries and then there’s something cold pressing against her forehead. “My _bag,_ Lysithea! There’s something— Someone cast a trace on the spear. There’s a toxin on it, I need—“

That’s the last thing Byleth hears and she is indescribably grateful that she expires surrounded by her friends, body not lost to the writhing sea of pain and hatred out on the battlefield. 

  
  


—

_1187, 4th of the Lone Moon,_

_For the desk of Her Royal and Most Holy Majesty, Monarch of the Dawn, Goddess and Light of my Life,_

_I got so excited when your letter was delivered I shut myself in my room to read it at once. I think I might have insulted a distant aunt by how suddenly I ditched her. In my defence, she was talking about tax rates, and we all know numbers make me sleepy._

_Your gift got a good laugh out of me. I didn’t even know reinforced quills were a thing. What monstrous bird did you pluck this from? I’ve stabbed it through my desk trying to break it and now I’m in trouble with my chamberlain because the desk is damaged and the quill is not. Remarkable. The book was wonderful, I spent all night reading it. You really do know me._

_I had a look over the proposal. You should offer his Lordship thirty percent of the mines’ yield along with sole access to the farmlands in Itha. They have acres of rice fields that will turn a tidy profit for him, and you’ll still have Conand and Galatea. Tell him that the entirety of Itha is his, but request he open the trade route to Kupala. It’s a win-win for us and he can’t complain if we finally cede some ground to him after centuries of being beaten back by House Gautier. Sylvain will pout a bit, but I’m sure you can win him over. Just smile at him, he’ll fall out the nearest window the second you do._

_I knew you’d love the sword. We have a couple as heirlooms, most belonging to my mother which shouldn’t surprise you. But I commissioned yours which is why it’s second to none, it was made for you alone, my love, and I spend so much time wishing for your presence in my arms that by now I’ve memorised every part of you, so I knew the measurements to ask for._

_Romance aside, can you tell Hilda that if any suitors come to ask for your hand that there’s an entire Almyran army waiting to rain fire down mercilessly upon them? I’m sure Nardel won’t mind me borrowing them for such a noble cause._

_I’m not joking._

_Ah, I don’t think I’ve ever wished for something so hard in my life. All my life’s ambitions pale in comparison to the dreams I have of you. I wait impatiently for the day I can return to your side, and at this point it's all that’s getting me through the days. It’s nice being home, it’s nice seeing my parents, but…_

_God, By, I miss you so much it hurts._

_Soon. Soon, we’ll be together. I’m sorry. I love you._

_Yours, heart, mind, body, and soul,_

_Claude_

_P.S, Seriously, tell Hilda what I said about the army. I literally cannot stress enough how much I am Not Kidding about that._

  
  


_xXx_

  
  


—

  
  


Byleth stirs and the first thing she becomes aware of is the sound of running water trickling gently somewhere to her left. She turns her head toward the sound, throat prickling with thirst and she pries her heavy eyelids open to try and find the source of the water. What she sees is a blurry figure pouring something into a basin from a large clay jug and when the figure looks at her, they gasp and nearly drop the vessel. 

“Oh, thank the Goddess,” the figure says with Marianne’s voice and as Byleth blinks slowly, the pale, drawn face of her friend swims into view as she bends over Byleth, hands fluttering around her face as she assesses whatever damage she can see that Byleth can’t.

“What…” Byleth coughs and Marianne hushes her gently, fetching a cup and bringing it to Byleth’s cracked lips, supporting her head gently as she drinks in slow, deep gulps. 

“Easy now,” Marianna says softly, gently lowering her head back into pillows. “You’ve only been unconscious for a short while. Barely a day. Your body is surprisingly resilient to toxins, you were incredibly lucky.”

“Poison?” Byleth croaks, trying to sit up. Marianne pushes her down again, careful but firm. “The javelin?”

“It was coated with a toxin,” Marianne explains, fluffing Byleth’s pillow unnecessarily. Her eyes are wet. “That wasn’t the worst of it, like I said you’re surprisingly resilient. It was the proximity of the spear to a major artery that nearly took you from us. We managed to staunch the bleeding in time, luckily Raphael was nearby and was drawn by Reus’ cry. If he hadn’t moved so quickly we would have lost you. Ignatz retrieved the spear so Lysithea and I could synthesise an antitoxin, but by the time it was ready to administer, you’d already recovered.”

Byleth opens her mouth again but closes it at Marianne’s surprisingly sharp glance. “A curare,” she says in response to Byleth’s unasked question. “Causes asphyxiation in large doses. Put it out of your mind, it’s a commonly found compound. It won’t help us find the culprits.”

Byleth clenches her jaw at that. Retribution is a language she understands. With no outlet, no one to blame, she's left unbalanced and filled with ineffectual fury. 

“We retreated,” Marianne continues, picking the jug back up to finish pouring water into the basin. Once full she dips a clean cloth into it and sets to dabbing at the space between Byleth’s neck and shoulder. She hisses at the biting sting and Marianna murmurs an apology. “After you fell, Seteth called for a withdrawal. It…” Marianne pauses to take a deep, trembling breath. “We retreated back to Derdriu, but…” Marianne shakes her head. “The city is under siege.”

Byleth’s breath catches, ice flooding her veins and making the wound in her shoulder burn violently in response. To lose Derdriu, to lose their capital… They may never recover. And here she is, _convalescing._ Weakened, useless, unfit to—

“We are regrouping,” Marianne says, cutting across Byleth’s harsh trail of thought. “Raphael and Lorenz are helping to fortify the city as best they can. We have the Knights assisting an evacuation effort. We will not concede easily but their forces are… overwhelming.”

“I must—“

“ _Rest,_ ” Marianne insists. “You are the _worst_ patient, I’m so glad you’re rarely injured, I cannot bear tending to you.” She sighs, shoulders tense. “Rest, please. I will bring you some broth but you _must_ rest. The time for battle will come again soon and you must be ready, but you cannot fight if you do not give your body time to heal.” She steps away, putting the bloodied cloth into the basin. “I will return shortly. _Please,_ Byleth. Rest.”

Byleth, it seems, has no choice but to surrender. Exhaustion pulls heavy at her mind and she cannot even keep her eyes open long enough to watch Marianne cross the room - her chambers, she realises dimly - and by the time the door latch clicks softly closed, Byleth is already swimming toward uneasy, fitful sleep.

She is woken an indeterminate amount of time later, by an almighty crash and the foundations of the estate vibrating under the force of it. 

She jerks upright, shoulder stabbing pain into her nerves at the movement, but she doesn’t spare it even a wince as she throws the bedclothes back, lurching from the bed and tearing off her shift to reach for the nearest clothes she can find. She can hear raised forces and heavy, armoured footsteps down the halls of the estate and as she dresses she ignores the fear creeping through her stomach, banishing it in favour of cold efficiency that has thus far served her better than any other emotion. 

Dressed, she reaches for her sword, sheathed and laid out on the vanity across the room. It is bloody and caked with mud and she straps it over her clothes along with the dagger she straps to her thigh, before hurrying from the room while trying to shove her feet haphazardly into boots at the same time without falling over. Once through the door she sees dozens of Knights and soldiers tearing through the halls as well as chamberlains and servants all dashing about in some shoddy sort of order. 

“What is happening?” She demands of a passing Knight, grabbing her by the arm and giving the poor woman a terrible fright. She offers a clumsy bow, eyes wild with fear. 

“Your Majesty,” she gasps, clasping a hand to her chest in a trembling salute. “The city is under attack— We’re moving to retaliate as fast as we can.”

“Where is Lorenz?” Byleth releases her and the Knight bows again, taking a step back. 

“The east wing, Majesty. Lord Seteth is with him also.”

Byleth strides off without another word, more Knights racing past her without the presence of mind to bow as they normally would. She doesn’t care, never has, and shoulders open the door to the east wing before remembering, too late, her injury. She hisses through her teeth and the sound draws the attention of the people bent over the table and Seteth at the head of them blanches at the sight of her.

“You should be—“

“Seteth, if the next word out of your mouth is _‘resting_ ,’ I’ll strip you of your title and ship you off to Sreng to spend the rest of your days negotiating the trade prices of barley,” she snaps, moving up to the table. Leonie snorts but covers it with a cough when Seteth glares at her. 

“As usual you refuse to see sense,” Seteth grouses. “Very well, come closer. We’re in a dire situation and I could use your input.”

“How accommodating you are to your Queen,” Byleth comments drily, stepping closer to glance over the map of the city. Red markers almost cover the entire map and it reminds her of a time when the red of the Empire almost covered the entire land. She swallows thickly. 

“We aren’t prepared,” Leonie says gravely. “I’m not being pessimistic, it’s just a fact. We never prepared for an onslaught like this. After the war we didn’t think we’d need to, but that’s sure as hell come back to bite us in the ass. Seteth doesn’t want to listen to me, but I’m telling you these Imperial remnants are being led by _Those Who Slither In The Dark_.”

Byleth represses the urge to shudder. “Seteth, we can't rule it out as a very real possibility. We have no idea how far the reach of the Agarthans spread before we destroyed Shambhala.”

Seteth bristles. “I’m not ruling it out,” he snaps. “I’m just loathe to believe those _vermin_ had enough power to launch an assault this sudden and this vicious.”

Byleth agrees, irritatingly, but it’s that kind of thinking that led them here in the first place. If she hadn’t been so overwhelmed by her coronation, perhaps she would have been able to see the bigger picture for what it is, but the time for wishing things were different has long passed. They’re here _now,_ and something needs to be done before they lose the capital and Byleth’s fledging kingdom is brought to ruin before she can fulfil her promise. 

“I think it was a front, Lorenz says, stepping forward. Byleth looks to him and he nods at her, expression caught strangely between relief and dread. She’s not sure which is born of her presence in the war room. “The army at Airmid was a distraction. While we were attempting to combat them there, the real target was the capital all along.”

“They wanted us to assemble the majority of our forces there,” Byleth adds, horrified. “Thin our ranks, then force us to retreat and then take us while we’re weakened.”

“There’s no doubt,” Leonie adds grimly. “This _stinks_ of the Agarthans. This is exactly the kind of underhanded shit Solon would’ve pulled.”

Byleth is _intimately_ acquainted with the ‘underhanded shit’ Solon was responsible for. The image of Jeralt on his knees and Kronya’s smiling face will be seared into her memories for the rest of her life. 

“Then we counter them,” Byleth says, slamming her palm down on the table hard enough to make the expensive mahogany groan. “We make our last stand here, with everything we have. I know they’re counting on us to be weakened, but the worst thing you can do to a wounded animal is corner it. Until its last breath, it will fight for its life with every ounce of strength left in its body. If we fall here, we lose _everything,_ and I for one have no intention of dying without giving everything I have left to take as many of them down with me before I go.”

Leonie nods fiercely and though Lorenz looks grim he gives a short, decisive nod as well. Seteth offers no such gesture, but he looks to Byleth and in his eyes she can see the determination that she knows is burning just as strongly in her own. 

“For Fódlan,” he murmurs quietly. 

“For Fódlan,” Byleth echoes and stabs her dagger into the map.


	2. Part Two: Razed Earth. Lone Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn’t exactly say I’m taking liberties with Clayde’s S-Support, I’m just saying that, for a conclusion, it answered less questions than I liked and left even more unanswered. Hence this entire fic in response.

~~_1187, 10th of the Lone Moon,_ ~~

~~_Claude,_ ~~

~~_This is getting ridiculous. You thrust Queendom upon me and then whisked yourself away somewhere I couldn’t follow, left me with a duty I didn’t want, and now I must spend my days without you?_ ~~

~~_Von Reigan, you insufferable little schemer,_ ~~

~~_Come home right this second. I’m sick of missing you. I didn’t want to be Queen, I can’t do this without you by my side. I’m not a Queen, I’m a mercenary. I’m made for battle, not for peace. Come home._ ~~

~~_Claude,_ ~~

~~_I swear by all the power in me if you don’t come home soon I’ll raze Fódlan to the ground. Goddess damn it all, what on earth were you thinking, leaving this kingdom to me? Was it worth it?_ ~~

~~_Claude,_ ~~

~~_I’m finding it hard without you. I understand why, I know what you want, I know why we’re doing this. But it’s hard to bear, this distance. It’s been months and I miss you so much I can hardly breathe with it. Please, please tell me it won’t be much longer. It’s been months and I’m tired of it._ ~~

~~_The last thing I want is to distress you, but I’m not meant to be a queen. It’s difficult for me. A kingdom is different to students, to mercenaries and soldiers. I’m constantly on edge and I can hardly stand it._ ~~

~~_Please tell me something to make this worth it. I’m at my wits end._ ~~

~~_I love you._ ~~

  
  


_1187, 11th of the Lone Moon,_

_For the attention of he whom I love best, as irritating as I may find him at times,_

_I’m not going to sing your praises or flatter your already overinflated ego, but I am incredibly grateful that I don’t have to read through another awful letter demanding a sixty percent tax on our silver yield. The Regent agreed as you knew he would and that’s all that I will say on the matter._

_I wish I had more positive news for you this time, but unfortunately we are receiving more and more reports of a rebellion forming from the remnants of the Empire. Nothing too concerning but it seems like we have no choice but to answer the challenge with steel. It’s weighing heavily on everyone’s minds, as well as on my own. I can see them all thinking the same thing. We thought the fighting was over._

_It is nothing, but I’ll be departing for the border of Hyrm in a week’s time. Their forces are approaching from Airmid and they’ll be expecting us to cross Myrddin to halt them. We’ll be attacking from the east instead and we’ll quell this uprising before they have time to muster a retaliation._

_All will be well, though I’d feel a lot more confident if I had you at my side. I hope things are well in Almyra._

_My heart to you,_

_Byleth_

  
  


xXx

  
  


—

  
  


From the ramparts, Lysithea watches Derdriu burn. She doesn’t wipe away the tears on her cheeks, doesn’t give into the despair. She lets the tears fall because she would be inhuman if she didn’t shed tears for the people below, for the ruin their homes are falling too, but she doesn’t let it overwhelm her. She uses it instead, weaponises it, and uses that pain to conjure a flaming orb that she sets into the ballista beside her and the rest of the assembled mages lining the ramparts follow her lead, each conjuring burning spheres to load into the siege engines. Once loaded, Lysithea turns back to the burning city and raises her arm. In the distance, a golden wyvern curls through the sky. Sunlight, fractured as it pierces in shards through the heavy cloud over, glints off its rider’s sword and as the rider slashes the blade downwards, Lysithea copies the movement and in unison the catapults let fly, raining fire down upon their enemies. 

As the fire descends, Ignatz nocks an arrow, draws, and fires, leading a volley that rips through the air like a wave of starlings but infinitely more deadly. Each is tipped with a toxin strong enough to fell a wyvern fifty times over and, as dishonourable as that feels, Ignatz prays that each arrow finds its target. 

After that, there’s naught else to do but begin the charge. Each soldier, axewielder, cavalier, rider and lancer waits with bated breath as the golden wyvern and their Queen circle slowly miles above their heads. Then, with a roar that echoes through the heavens, the wyvern falls into a steep, corkscrewing dive, and the charge is begun. The final stand of Fódlan against the remnants of the Empire. 

Byleth’s world narrows down to the blister of wind, mint hair whipping about her face, the heat of flames, and the savage thrill of battle. 

This is it. 

_This is it._

  
  


—

  
  


_1187, 15th of the Lone Moon,_

_My Friend,_

_This is certainly troubling news, but I have every faith in your ability to put this fire out before it has time to properly catch. I’ll toast your victory when the time comes and I pity those foolish enough to cross your path._

_That said… I know there’s something you’re not telling me. Forgive me, but I like to think I’ve become quite adept at reading between the lines of what you say and write._

_If you don’t want to speak of it now, I’ll respect that, but I do ask that you confide in me as you always have. I may be far away right now, but my heart remains with you._

_Send word once you arrive at Hyrm. Just so I know all is proceeding as planned._

_Yours,_

_Claude_

  
  


_xXx_

  
  


_1187, 21st of the Lone Moon,_

_Byleth,_

_I’m hoping this letter reaches you. From what you said, you must have already reached Hyrm, but I was hoping to receive word from you before the battle started so I could ease my own worries. I don’t doubt your ability, never have, but having you fight without me feels so profoundly wrong I can hardly stand it._

_Just one letter, Byleth. That’s all I’m asking for. Send it as soon as you can do I know that victory is coming for us._

_I love you. I’m sorry I’m so far away. I won’t offer more excuses, they're all starting to sound hollow anyway._

_All my love,_

_Claude_

  
  


xXx

  
  


_1187, 27th of the Lone Moon,_

_By,_

_There’s been no word from you and I can’t stand it. It’s been weeks, Byleth. WEEKS. Do you stand victorious over the remnants or has something happened? Not knowing is killing me and I can’t rest until I know._

_Please send word that you won’t kill me as soon as I arrive. I know it feels like I abandoned you and I am truly sorry, and I’ll explain everything as soon as I’m home. As soon as I’m home you’ll understand. Or at least, I hope you will. Send word when you get this, I’ll be following the messenger’s route so I’ll intercept them when they bring it. A few more days and I’ll be home._

_Please be safe. Please._

_Claude_

  
  


xXx

  
  


_1187, 2nd of the Great Tree Moon,_

_Byleth,_

_Please, send something. I need to know you’re okay and that you forgive me. I need to know that you’re alive. Please, my love. Just one word from you will ease my heart._

_I’m almost there. Byleth, I’m almost home._

_Claude_

xXx

  
  


—

  
  


Byleth stands, sword loose in her trembling grip, tipto the ground as she fights to raise it aloft to the Titanus before her. She stands, the last defence between Fódlan and utter destruction, exhausted and wounded and—

Alone. 

She does not know where her friends are. She does not know if her beloved Golden Deer are still alive. The city is silent, deathly silent, and here she stands, alone and injured, broken and bloodied, in the ruins of her home. Reus lies behind her, prone and unconscious but breathing and if Byleth can save him she will, but there’s no guarantee anymore. Nothing more she can do except stand between him and _them_ and breaking promises is not something she ever thought she’d do, but now, here at the end of all things, it’s all she can think about. Her last, heartfelt promise, and the man to whom she made it. 

The Titanus takes a shuddering step forward. Byleth takes one back. Her muscles scream at her, her blood thunders in her ears, her breaths come sharp and uneven and painfully and then…

Her sword falls from her grip. She cannot fight any more. All is lost. 

Byleth cannot face death on her knees, and though her body aches to just let go, she uses the last of her strength to stay upright, raises her chin in defiance at the unholy creature before her. She is not a coward. She will face her end with grace and dignity. No one, _no one,_ will take her honour from her. At her last stand, Byleth will walk tall. She has been tested and she has not been found wanting. 

“You will _never_ ,” Byleth rasps at the Titanus and through it to whomever is controlling it, “claim Fódlan’s heart. It will _never_ be yours.”

The foul creature raises its arm. Byleth raises her head in a silent challenge. It’s all she has the strength left to do. 

_Claude._ She fills her mind with his name, his face. In her last moments, she will die with his memory singing through her body. _I tried._

The finishing blow never lands. With a mechanical groan the Titanus staggers and, almost in slow motion, pitches backwards, hitting the ground with an earth-shattering crash. Byleth staggers from the force of it and then her ears are ringing with the cacophonous sound of a thousand wyverns roaring in unison. She turns towards it, eyes wide and silent heart jumping in her bruised chest, and against the darkening sky she can see the twisting wall of brown and gold, scales shimmering like stars in the scant sunlight. They dive in waves, rippling like a forest in the wind and, as they descend towards their enemies, Byleth catches sight of a single rider at the front of the wave, clad in gold and astride a rare albino wyvern.

Byleth’s heart _sings._

It’s the edge they need, a force of nature so wild and untamed that in one swift movement they’ve turned the tide of the siege. A hidden gambit, one Byleth hadn’t ever dreamed they could possess, and she knows exactly who is responsible and she aches so deeply to go to him, but her strength is flagging and her vision blurs so she finally lets herself fall to bended knee, dragging herself to Reus’ body and propping her back against his warm stomach. He croons softly at her presence and it eases her worry some so feel him breathe against her. 

She sits and she waits, under the setting sun, under the wings of the wyverns of the Almyran army, she waits as they save her people, as they decimate the ranks of Those Who Slither In The Dark and the Imperial remnants who dare support them. She swims between dazed wakefulness and uneasy unconsciousness, breathing slowly through her exhaustion and her pain, until the ground shakes with the unified landing of the magnificent beasts and their riders, until a shadow passes over her and she looks up to see a tall silhouette and a gloved hand extended down toward her. 

“Rough day?” Claude asks, hauling her to her feet. 

“You’re late,” Byleth says, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him as soundly as her battered body will let her. His arms wrap immediately around her waist and he pulls her tight against the warmth of his chest, spinning her round as she loses herself in the sight, sound, feel, and taste of him, this brilliant man she loves who has saved her time and time again. 

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says against her lips and she feels the smile against her skin. “I brought some friends home for dinner.”

Byleth laughs softly, pulling back to look at the face she’s missed for so long. “That’s fine but they’ll have to help clean up first.”

  
  


—

  
  


The Almyran forces help round up the last remnants of Those Who Slither In The Dark with a rapid efficiency that impresses even Seteth. Not that he has the energy to complain when Byleth has him carted off with the rest of the wounded to get the gash in his side tended to. She does nothing else until each of her friends are located and tended to, each of them injured but alive and she’s more grateful for that than she’ll ever be able to express. 

Unfortunately Claude is intent on also having Byleth treated before anything else and he hands her off to Marianne without even the gall to look repentant. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells her instead with a sincerity that disarms her petty protest before it’s even formed. He lands the final blow with a soft kiss to her brow and a gentle smile that makes her ribs ache. “I’ve got this, you just focus on _not_ dying before dinner.”

Byleth snorts and allows Marianne to assess her current state on the condition that another mage sees to Reus as well. Claude swears he’ll have Reus tended to at once and he climbs into Najima’s saddle and then they’re away and Marianne is dragging Byleth into the medic’s tent to force her to let herself be healed like some kind of tyrant. 

It’s the best place to be, though, because while Marianne tends to Byleth’s wounds, each of her Golden Deer comes by at one point another to help more wounded into beds and to get treated for something or other. Ignatz has a bad case of concussion that has even Byleth snorting in amusement when Raphael has to pin him down to stop him hurting himself in his confusion. Leonie has a broken arm and Hilda a jagged cut across her forehead, but the others are hale enough to assist Claude and the Almyrans with the relief efforts. 

It will be a slow process, but they were victorious. It tastes sweeter than Byleth thought it would, but that might just be because Claude is home. 

When Marianne is finished with her and Byleth is allowed to leave the medic’s tent, she seeks out Reus first because she knows she won’t be able to relax until she sees him conscious and recovering. He’s penned with the other cavalry beasts though they all give him a wide berth while he licks his scales clean of the blood of their fallen foes. He snaps to attention as Byleth approaches and he strains to reach her but he’s been tied down in such a way that he’s not able to put weight on his injured left leg. She goes to him immediately, cradling his huge head in her arms and nuzzling at him with heady relief. He’s grumpy about being hurt but he’s alive and will recover and Byleth can handle his sour mood for that fact alone. 

She waits with him until the sun has fully set and those who are clearing the battlefield have set up lanterns to light their way so they can continue working. Marianne has made her swear not to assist until at _least_ the day after tomorrow, but Byleth refuses to do nothing so she joins the servants in bringing food to the labourers and the injured. Her presence both bolsters their mood and sparks fearful respect but most are too exhausted to be too extensively bothered by her Majesty handing out bowls of stew and fresh water. 

And once the dawn breaks anew on a Fódlan finally, _finally,_ free of Imperial remnants, Claude finds her again and at his back is the entire might of the Almyran army who saved her people. 

She bows to them all, pressing a fist to her chest in a gesture of deep respect and gratitude. Nardel - _Nader,_ she reminds herself - grins at her and winks and she can’t help the smile that spreads across her face in return. 

“Thank you,” she says, though it doesn’t feel like nearly enough for what they’ve done. “If there is anything I can do to repay you for this, name it. It will be yours.”

“I think we’ll leave the negotiations to him,” Nardel says, jerking a thumb in Claude’s direction. “For now, a bed and a keg of ale should suffice.”

There is much work to be done, but luckily for Fódlan, Byleth and Claude have always worked better together than alone. A proper reunion will have to wait, and though they’re both impatient for the opportunity, they’ve always been willing to put the good of the many before the happiness of the few. While the Almyrans secure their victory, Byleth summons a council of those among them well enough to sit it, and though Seteth is in less than stable condition, he limps into the chambers with Shamir’s assistance, leaning heavily in her shoulders for support. 

“I’m pleased to see you, my friend,” Seteth says the moment he sees Claude and they clasp forearms tightly in greeting. Byleth throws Seteth a pointed look, telling him wordlessly that he shouldn’t be present in his condition. He shoots back a glance at her bandaged shoulder, visible just beneath the collar of her shirt and she concedes to let him stay. He’s unbearably smug about it. 

With Claude at her side, Byleth tells those assembled that, for the foreseeable future, their combined armies will unite into a workforce made for rebuilding rather than warfare and that they will be tasked with clearing the streets before anything else, piling up debris from ruined structures and repurposing anything that can be used as materials to rebuild. Her orders are followed instantly and wholeheartedly. Under Raphael’s cheery, determined guidance, she knows they will have the streets cleared in days rather than weeks and that in turn will give everyone the much needed motivation to redouble their efforts so that the rebuild effort can go forward as planned. 

Ignatz and Flayn will assist the evacuation, though it’s not danger that has them moving civilians from Derdriu, rather more a relocation effort than anything else. Until further notice, the city is to be cleared until it is safe for the people to inhabit it again, when houses are repaired and fields are ready to be tilled and crops can be sown for the next harvest. The neighbouring cities are more than up to the task, and Claude announces that the storehouses will be opened to provide a buffer to accommodate extra food requirements and he manages to work out the logistics of rerouting the entire trade route between Edmund and Gloucester through Goneril before they even break for tea. 

Everything progresses more smoothly than it has any right to and it’s because everyone is so eager to cooperate. On the back of two potentially disastrous sieges, the promise of peace finally feels _real,_ and the goal they’ve all been working towards since the fall of the Empire is finally within reach. Even with what promises to be weeks of constant, tireless work ahead, nothing is able to dampen Byleth’s mood when it’s buoyed so by the way her people so evidently want to assist each other and by Claude’s stalwart presence right back where he belongs. At her side. 

And the Almyran’s are a force to be reckoned with. They’re loud and boisterous and never seem to tire out so they’re always ready to work, from dawn until dusk every day and then the nights that follow are filled with the sound of their laughter and songs until early into the next morn, and even in the face of such near devastation, their infectious cheer is enough to boost the spirits of anyone nearby. Byleth finds that she loves them all in a way she can’t quite explain. They’re so different to the people of Fódlan, closer to the earth, to nature, less restricted by a theistic code but no less moral and upstanding. It’s refreshing to be in their company after so long spent upholding the will of the Church, and Byleth can see where Claude got his carefree attitude from, if he spent his formative years in Almyra. 

Byleth so wants to visit his homeland. 

And speaking of Almyrans, they all treat Claude with a respect she's never seen anyone else afford him. They offer him salutes and call him a name in their tongue that Byleth doesn’t understand, but when he passes they cheer for him and though they clearly hold him in high regard, he’s not excluded from their good-natured ribbing whenever there’s an opportunity. 

Yes, Byleth absolutely adores the Almyrans. 

“They recognise strength,” Claude explains of the Almyrans later, past two days of near constant work after his return. She finds him outside just before dusk, passing out two missives to messengers she doesn’t recognise, the contents of which Byleth neither cares about nor needs to. He turns to her as he speaks, taking her hand and leading her down the steps of the estate and into the streets that, though they bear scars from battle, are already beginning to heal. “In all its forms. Whether on the battlefield or in council. It’s not so hard to win them over once they can see the strength of your character. Actions speak a lot louder than words in Almyra. I think that’s why my dad fell in love with my mom. She’s always been… direct.”

“What is it they call you?” Byleth asks, trying to pronounce the word she’s heard so many of the Almyran’s shout to Claude. It feels strange in her mouth, foreign and intriguing. “They treat you like one of their generals.”

Claude makes a strange face, almost like he’s bitten into a whole lemon, rind and all. “It’s… An honourific.”

“I see,” Byleth says thoughtfully. “You’re full of it.”

Claude snorts at that, grinning at her crookedly. “I knew you’d see through that. And I’ll tell you, I promise. But later, okay?”

Byleth nods, dissatisfied but bearing it, and then bids Claude goodnight with a gentle kiss. It’s painful, their current arrangement, but born of necessity in the aftermath of battle. While things are rebuilding, they’ve taken to sleeping in shifts, trading off rest so that one of them is always present to assist wherever it is needed. It’s a good system, even if it does prolong their much needed reunion for a little longer. But having him so close again is enough for the moment. And soon they’ll have their time together to talk, of Fódlan’s future, of Almyra’s future. _Their_ future. 

But such things must wait and Byleth turns her attention to her people to do what she has always done; give all of herself for those who need it. 

Her dreams can wait. 

  
  


—

  
  


A week passes, and then two, then three, and then a month has come and gone and Byleth is going slowly mad. Derdriu thrives and her people thrive and then the order is passed to allow the citizens of the capital to return to their homes. On the heels of that progress, Byleth’s friends can return to their families, her loyal Golden Deer free to return to their lives, unburdened by the threat of war. She bids them a fond farewell and they depart with promises to reunite at Garreg Mach for the Summer Solstice Festival in Garland Moon two months hence. It soothes the bitterness of their departure to know she will see them all again soon, but having them so close again, despite the awful reason, had kept her spirits up and her heart glad. Without them she feels a little lost, though she still has Seteth, Flayn, and Lorenz. 

And, in theory, she _also_ has Claude. Except right now she has no idea where he is. Not a single servant in the estate has seen him since he retired to the Almyran camp yesterday evening where he has been staying since his return. It had been the first night Byleth had been released from her duties earlier than dawn and she had hoped - quite fervently, truth be told - to be able to see him and drag him back to her chambers in the estate, but no one has seen hide nor hair of him since. 

She weaves through the tents of the Almyran camp looking for him and the soldiers hail her when they see her but cheerfully beg her forgiveness when they all tell her the same thing - that Claude is not there, that they haven’t seen him, that maybe she should look elsewhere.

She’s tired of it and her temper is close to fraying, though she holds her irritation in check through sheer force of will. He’d come home to her _weeks_ ago, but they’ve barely spent more than an hour in each other’s company since that first council in the siege’s aftermath. Weeks of shifts and tireless work have finally worn her down and she’s about thirty seconds away from slashing her sword through the nearest breakable object just to let out her frustrations. 

She could head to the training rounds and spar for a bit, but the mannequins would only frustrate her more and it wouldn’t be fair to lash out as she inevitably would on the poor, unsuspecting Knight unfortunate enough to face her. 

No, she’ll just have to deal with no outlet and hope that, when she does find him, he has a _really_ good excuse for his sudden, unexplained absence. Perhaps a quick flight on Reus will ease her frustrations, if they fly fast enough to quicken her blood with exhilaration. 

“Your Majesty!” A young page pipes up, dashing to her side as she enters the courtyard and bowing so low his nose nearly touches the flagstones. She manages to smile at him because he’s young and exuberant and his enthusiasm cheers her, even now when her mood is sour enough to curdle milk a mile away. 

“Speak,” she tells him and laughs softly when he bows again, wriggling in his excitement.

“I’ve been asked to inform you— The Royal Delegation from Almyra has arrived! Your presence is needed in the audience chamber!”

Byleth blinks. “Royal delegation? What on earth? Why wasn’t I informed? I saw no delegation approach.”

The page dances impatiently from foot to foot. “The King of Almyra himself requests your presence, your Majesty! If I may be so bold, I think— I think he came with the Almyran soldiers! I think he was waiting for the right time to present himself to you!”

Unbalanced, Byleth thanks the page and sends him on his way with praises for his good work. She watches him sprint away while her mind whirls with equal parts exhaustion, irritation, and confusion. She should have expected something like this. It stinks of Claude’s underhandedness. He probably managed to beguile the King into following him here from Almyra, to show him Fódlan in their weakened state, ravaged by war but still working to rebuild. It was probably a ploy to show their neighbouring kingdom exactly how Fódlan can unite under pressure. She’d be impressed at Claude’s scheming if she wasn’t so damn tired. She strides into the estate and summons one of the servants to bring her cloak and coronet to her with haste, heading to the audience chamber to get this damn farce over with. She knows Claude is going to be in there, that damn smug smile on his handsome face. Oh, the absolute _hell_ she's going to give him later.

The servant returns and she lets him fasten her cloak around her neck and snatching her coronet from him with more force than she intends. She grimaces and apologises, requesting that he have tea brought to the chambers in short order. Steeling herself with a sharp inhale, she jams her coronet onto her head and pushes the doors open. 

The room is empty. 

Bewildered, Byleth moves to the high backed chair at the head of the room - she refuses to call it a throne, she’ll not sit in a throne, it’s just a fancy _chair -_ and stands before it, gazing out into the empty room with an expression of pure perplexion. 

What in Sothis’ name is even going on any more? Is this some kind of joke she’s not in on? 

She’s so discomfited that she actually starts when the door at the far end of the room opens and three people step in, the one standing ahead of the other two, dressed in fine garments adorned with the crest of the Almyran people. She recognises Nardel - _Nader_ , she really should refer to him to what she knows is his true identity, especially when he’s here formally bearing the crest of his kingdom - and, to her surprise, Lady Judith, who looks both bored and amused in equal measure. 

But it’s the figure in front of them that captures and holds her attention, head held high as he strides towards where she stands before stopping and offering a low bow. When he straightens, Claude is grinning at her, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“Your Majesty,” he intones with affected solemnity. “We, the Almyran people have traveled far to pledge our allyship to Fódlan and its Queen. We have fought beside you and won a victory for your kingdom in a show of kinship and support and we humbly ask that you will accept this as a display of our loyalty towards your cause. Let this be the herald of a deep and lasting alliance between our kingdoms.”

A beat passes. Then:

“Claude, what the hell?” The words come out before Byleth can stop them, blurted through lips gone slack with bewilderment. Judith and Nader both smother their amusement, sharing a look that Byleth doesn’t understand, doesn’t care about, because she’s too damn confused by whatever fast one Claude is trying to pull on her right now. 

“Kind of glad I did this without a proper audience,” Claude says mildly, folding his arms. “I’ll be honest, I was hoping for a bit more _shock_ and _awe_ than that, By.”

“I’m plenty shocked,” Byleth says, taking a step down from the raised platform her fancy chair rests on. Wisely, Claude takes a step back. “You said you’d explain yourself _later._ It’s _later,_ Claude. So out with it.”

Claude, to his credit, doesn’t sweat under the weight of her steely gaze. He appears relaxed, offers her one of his trademark easy smiles, but the stiff line of his jaw and the hardness in his eyes give away his tension. “I did say that,” he allows, taking another step back as Byleth advances. “And I’m explaining now. Poorly, I’ll admit, but you can’t blame me for wanting to have a bit of fun with it.”

Byleth doesn’t dignify that with a response, stops a few scant feet away from him, hands on her hips and fixing him with the most piercing glare she can muster. Claude swallows and laughs awkwardly, pushing a hand through his tousled curls. 

“I’m the King of Almyra.”

Byleth _stares_ at him. Minutes pass and Claude finally starts to sweat the longer the deafening silence draws on, fidgeting nervously under her unrelenting gaze. “By?”

Byleth finally manages to choke out “...How on _earth_ did you manage that?”

Claude relaxes instantly, shoulders slumping as he sighs with relief, relief that she’s not going to actively try to murder him. _Yet_ . “Remember how I said I had royal ties in Almyra, though insignificant ones? That wasn’t _exactly_ true. My father— He was the King. He’s still alive, don’t worry, but we had a long talk while I was home and we decided that, for the good of both our kingdoms, he would step down as ruler and cede the Kingship to me. It was always my plan, By, to bring our kingdoms together under united rule. I didn’t hide it from you because I wanted to. I promised my parents I wouldn’t disclose my heritage until the time was right. I wasn’t trying to be dishonest, I just had ambitions that were too important to risk by being open about it, dreams too fragile to jeopardise. I was always honest about _that,_ at least.”

“...King?” Byleth echoes. “The whole time… You were a prince and you _never_ said anything?”

Claude’s gaze softens and he looks truly repentant. “I wanted to. I never wanted to hide anything from you, Teach, you have to believe that at least.”

It’s the affectionate way he uses her old title that finally eases her distress, finally brings the earth back under her feet so she can stand steadily once again. She’s still shocked, of course she is, but she trusts Claude, always has and always will, trusts that he trusts _her,_ believes in him and his dreams equally. They promised to help each other, wished for their dreams to be realised together all those years ago in the Goddess Tower. She does believe him and she exhales in a rush, shaking her head in hopeless fondness and when she looks up she smiles at him softly, because she can’t do anything else. 

“I believe you,” she says and Claude’s entire face lights up with delight. “But you’ve still got some explaining to do.”

  
  


—

  
  


Judith and Nader take their leave and Byleth is beginning to think that they were only present to make sure Byleth didn’t actually try to strangle Claude’s scheming throat with her bare hands which amuses her greatly. She and Claude adjourn to the solar where she has tea brought in for them and then Claude tells her _everything._

He talks, excitedly and without reserve, of his mother Tiana and her disappearance after the death of her brother, of her travels to Almyra where she fell in love with its people, its culture, and then ultimately its King who was besotted with her from their first chance meeting. 

He talks about growing up in Almyra, of his struggles to be accepted for his half-Fódlan heritage, of his days in the palace spent learning and training, preparing to one day rule the kingdom in his father’s place. 

He talks of his crest manifesting and his grandfather seeking out him and his mother, begging her to return home with her son, to prevent the Alliance from falling when his death caused an inevitable power vacuum. He talks about his mother’s staunch refusal and then of her shock when he had agreed to return with Oswald to Fódlan to prevent the ruin of the Alliance. 

“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone of my lineage,” he says, hands clasped around the steaming cup of tea Byleth poured for him. “No one was supposed to know who my parents were, why my mom left or where she’d gone. We let the people believe I was just the son of some obscure noble, taken in by the Duke’s goodwill. And you know the rest. It was jarring, at first. Like I told you before, I’ve always been treated as an outsider, in Almyra and then in Fódlan. It was exhausting.”

He takes a long sip from the cup and leans back in his chair and Byleth leans forward in response, reaching across the table to lay one of her hands gently on his wrist. “You can rest now,” she says. “No more secrets, no more subterfuge. Not with me. You can be honest now. No more hiding.”

Claude’s answering smile is sincere, crinkling right up to the corners of his eyes with the span of it. “You have no idea what a relief that is,” he tells her, placing one broad, warm hand over hers. “And you have no idea how good it is to see you again. Home— Almyra was nice, familiar. But my home is where you are.”

“I have some idea,” Byleth says, stroking a thumb over his wrist where their hands are joined. “Garreg Mach was the first permanent home I ever had, but I realised before too long that I only called it home because you were there.”

Claude’s breath catches at that and when Byleth looks up at him he’s smiling at her with the softest expression she’s ever seen on his face, eyes impossibly green and sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. 

“Damn it, Teach,” he says with a shaky laugh, sniffing inelegantly. “I don’t even have a response for that. Consider me well and truly disarmed by your sincerity. Utterly speechless.”

“And yet,” Byleth teases lightly, “you’re still talking.”

Claude winks at her. “You gonna shut me up, Teach?”

Byleth shakes her head. “I’ve missed the sound of your voice too much.”

It’s that statement, amusingly, that does the trick to effectively shut Claude up at once, causing him to choke on his own tongue and flush bright red right to the tips of his ears. Byleth laughs at him, the tight band that has been cinched round her chest since Claude’s departure months ago finally, _finally_ , releases. 

  
  


—

  
  


Whether by sheer luck or by the intervention of an unknown, sympathetic party, Byleth’s afternoon passes with no interruptions, no urgent duties demanding her attention. She spends it wholly absorbed in Claude’s company, only distracted from their conversation when the sky darkens and it becomes too dim to see in the solar without lighting a lantern. Rather than trouble any of the servants and tempt fate by allowing the opportunity for anyone to ply her with matters that require her attention, Byleth suggests they relocate to her chambers - or, more accurately, _Claude’s_ chambers, this estate is his, after all - so they can continue to talk more comfortably. 

“The Queen of Fódlan taking the King of Almyra back to her chambers,” Claude gasps, clutching imaginary pearls like a scandalised noblewoman. “People will _talk._ ”

“Let them,” Byleth says, pushing the door of her chambers open and dismissing the guards outside for the evening. “Besides, you’re going to have to make a formal announcement at some point.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Claude says in that tone of his that tells Byleth that he already had a plan, because of _course_ he does. “I was thinking about announcing it at the Solstice Festival at Garreg Mach. Flying in on Najima, pledging my allegiance to you like I did today, but with the right audience.”

“I have reservations,” Byleth says, eyebrows raised. “But experience tells me you’ve already thought of answers to every possible argument I could offer.”

Claude grins. “Your confidence in my ability is heartening. And not unfounded. Of course I have.”

Byleth rolls her eyes. “Of course you have.” She moves to the window and throws it open to let in the cool night air and leans out to look down at the paddock below where Reus is sleeping, only half visible from where most of the bulk of his body is curled up under the stable roof. Beside him, the white tail of a larger albino wyvern can be seen. It seems he’s found a friend in Claude’s loyal mount. How charming. 

“Not to be forward,” Claude says, stepping up behind her, hands brushing over the tops of her arms, warm even through his gloves. His voice is low beside her ear and he drops a sweet kiss to the side of her neck that isn’t half-obscured by bandages. “But I really, _really_ missed you, By.”

Byleth hasn’t let herself imagine this moment. She hasn’t spent days thinking of how it will feel to be back in his arms again, hasn’t allowed herself to because the pain of his absence was felt too keenly to be soothed by such empty dreams. She’d thought of him often, of course, but the moment she’d catch her thoughts turning wistful, she’d seek out distractions until her mind was occupied once more. 

Now that he’s here, really, truly _here,_ she finds herself at a loss for how to react. It’s the moment she’s waited for, uninterrupted by duty and unhindered by decorum, but she doesn’t know what to do. She almost laughs at herself. She’d be better prepared if they were meeting as enemies on a battlefield rather than… Whatever they are. 

She’s snapped out of her confusion when Claude moves away and for a moment she’s concerned that her stillness has caused him to withdraw from her. But when she turns he’s waiting for her, arms open for her to step into. He’s deferring to her, letting her make the decision as to what happens next. 

It’s a foregone conclusion. Byleth steps forward into his waiting arms, sliding her own around his neck as she fits herself against the firmness of his chest, slotting herself against him like a key into a lock. His hands come to rest gently against the curve of her spine, just for a moment, and then they lock around her waist like iron bands and he’s burying his face in the softness of her hair. He clings to her like she’s an anchor in stormy waters, and it’s only because his face is so close to her ear that she hears his shaky exhale. 

“I want to say that I shouldn’t have left,” he murmurs, breath warm against her skin. “I want to say that I should have stayed. I want to beg on my knees for you to forgive me, but I can’t do any of that because I know you already understand. And I’m not sorry that I left. I’m only sorry that I was gone for so long.”

“I know,” Byleth says, hands fisting in the silk of his cloak. “And I’m not angry at you for going. I’m angry that it was necessary, when all I wanted was to be close to you. But I’m not angry with you. I can’t be, not when I know in my heart that a single word from me would have brought you home.”

As she says them, Byleth is struck by exactly how true those words are. It settles into place in her chest right under her silent heart, lodging firmly deep in the core of her being where their truth cannot be ignored or denied. She knows, better than she knows herself, that had she sent word to Claude, had she even for a moment revealed how much his absence hurt her, he would have thrown everything away in an instant and returned to her side to ease that pain. The enormity of that realisation washes over her and with it, sweeps away the last of her bitterness at their parting. 

“Claude…” She says his name like a prayer, the only name she will ever utter with reverence because it belongs to the only person she will ever devote herself to. He pulls back to look at her, eyes searching her face and widening at what they find there. She doesn’t know what it is that he sees, but to her it feels as though the fullness of her still heart is shining through them, projecting the depth of her love for him, ardent and unmistakable. 

“Byleth,” he answers and the sound of her name in his voice still makes her shiver with how new it is, intimate in a way she doesn’t know how to guard against. He brushes a lock of hair away from her face with gentle fingers that just barely brush her cheek, tickling faintly as the material of his glove whispers against her skin. 

She’s suddenly so very, very tired. He reads it in her face what she wants, or at the very least he happens to coincidentally want the same thing she does. He reaches up to gently lift the coronet from her head, placing it on the desk beside forgotten paperwork, then unions the brooch fastening her cloak round her shoulders, letting the fabric slither to the floor in a pile. With gentle fingers he unlaces the bodice of her dress, strips away her layers until just her shift remains, and then she does the same for him, gloves then cloak then jacket then shirt then boots. All of it following the same path as her cloak until there is only their cotton underthings left and they retire to the huge bed that finally feels much less empty than it had yesterday. In Claude’s atms Byleth finds a kind of peace she never knew existed. 

It won’t be tonight. Neither of them are ready for it. They’ve been apart longer than they’ve been together and, though the reunion is sweeter than honey, they both need time to adjust to the other’s presence, time to relearn where their place is in each other’s orbit. 

But that’s okay. 

Now they have time. 

  
  
  
  



	3. Part Three: Lilac Sky. Garland Moon

There’s something bewitching in the air, something wild and carefree that seems to intoxicate everyone who breathes it in, and even Byleth doesn’t seem to be immune. From the day spring sweeps fully into Fódlan, teetering just on the edge of summer with its cool nights and butter-gold days, a haze of rising excitement shivers through the people, and it’s that infectious joy that tells Byleth that the Garland Moon is fast approaching. 

With Derdriu stable and properly on its way to recovery, that infectious spring sensation makes its way through the city and in windows and doorways, fresh flowers hang in multicoloured garlands as preparations for the Solstice begin in earnest. 

It will be Byleth’s first festival as Queen and even the mile-long list of duties she’s presented with don’t dampen her spirits. It’s hard to feel negative when her people are so happy and she wakes up to a new, fresh bouquet beside her bed each morning. 

That, and the fact that in a few days’ time, she and her retinue will be travelling down to Garreg Mach for the festival where her friends, her family, will be gathered for the celebrations. Excitement hums through her veins every time she thinks of it, and though he pretends otherwise, Seteth is equally as excited for the upcoming festivities. A fact Byleth is quick to remind him of whenever he chastises her wandering attentions during council. 

Claude, however, is another matter entirely. Since the departure of the Almyran forces back to their homeland, he’s been equal parts on edge and distracted. The Almyrans had departed before the previous month’s end, not all of them but a good portion, deigning to return home while a select few stayed in service to their King. Nader had been among those departing, which struck Byleth as strange, but she couldn’t deny that the need for him back home probably far outweighed his need to be near Claude. Surrounded as they are in Derdriu by friends and supporters, Claude is probably safer here than anywhere else.

Still, Byleth was somewhat sad to see Nader go. He had a relaxed way about him and yet a certain kind confidence that put Byleth at ease, maybe because he was as used to fighting as she is. He wears it proudly, something that Byleth has never been able to do, and she’d like the opportunity to learn from him, when they have time. Possibly when Byleth finally gets to visit Almyra, when Claude deems the time right for such a thing. 

But whatever spring madness has seized the people, Claude seems wholly immune, never still for long, and almost antsy whenever there isn’t much to be done. Byleth had tried to coax him into relaxing a little, but he’d smiled in that infuriating way of his and fed her some cock and bull line about always being relaxed. She’d let him get away with it, for the time being. 

But as the Solstice approaches, Claude seems to be getting more and more agitated, and the more agitated he gets, the less Byleth sees of him. He’s always doing  _ something,  _ and whatever duties he's taking on seem to be tasks he’s invented to keep himself busy. 

Byleth attempts many times to confront him about it, but getting anything out of him has always been an impossible feat, one Byleth has achieved on very few occasions. 

So she lets him be and trusts that he’ll come clean eventually. 

And he does, but in true Claude fashion, not until the very last minute. If Byleth is being honest, she should have seen it coming. 

While she’s overseeing the final preparations for their departure, Claude is meant to be fitting both Reus and Najima with their saddlery because none of the servants can get close to either of the proud beasts. He has evidently finished his work and managed to slip away from the other liverymen without much difficulty, but when he approaches, Byleth can see tension set heavily in the hard line of his shoulders. 

“Y’know,” he starts casually, leaning against the cart Byleth is busy preparing for their journey. ”I was thinking—“

“Try not to hurt yourself,” Byleth quips, tying down the last corner of the cover to the cart body. 

“First of all: rude. Second of all: it was my  _ thinking _ that won the war, Teach, and don’t you forget it.”

Byleth makes a doubtful sound, hiding her smile at Claude’s affronted gasp. “Anyway, you were saying?”

Claude sniffs, affecting affront. “Yes,  _ thank  _ you. I was saying that the Solstice festival might be the best time to make our… announcement. You’ve got to make a speech, right? Seteth was telling me about it. Maybe you could… I don’t know, maybe squeeze in a little fact about Almyra and Fódlan uniting?”

Byleth straightens up finally, wiping a hand over her brow to mop up the sweat there with her sleeve. She waves away the servant that hurries forward with a cloth for that same purpose. Her sleeve will do well enough, even if it’s not entirely proper. “I was thinking something similar,” Byleth tells Claude, propping a hand on her waist. “The timing couldn’t be better, actually. I’m going to assume you have an idea for how I should go about making the announcement.”

“Several.” Claude’s smile is brilliant in its brightness, but that’s his first and worst giveaway. It doesn’t reach his eyes and it’s been a very long time since he’s tried to pull one over on her by trying to dazzle her with the width of a smile that shines brighter than his eyes do. He’s showing too much teeth and that is what finally tips Byleth off to what has her friend so agitated. 

“Walk with me?” She says quietly and Claude’s disconcerting smile shrinks by a few molars. He knows she’s got him. Honestly, by now he really should know better. 

Still, he pushes away from the cart and falls into step beside her. She waves away -  _ again,  _ god they really are persistent - the servants that immediately make to follow them, and she and Claude walk together towards the one place Byleth knows will afford them the privacy she wants. 

A short distance away from the rear grounds of the castle, below Byleth’s window, the royal paddock stretches out down towards the shoreline. It’s peaceful at night, the deep, constant rush of the sea, and it’s here inside the fences of the paddock that Byleth decides to make Claude come clean. Mainly because if there’s one person who can detect lies almost as well as she can, it’s her noble and stalwart companion, who isn’t even technically a person. 

Reus turns his great head towards them as they vault the fence of the paddock, Claude’s hands going immediately to Byleth’s waist as she climbs over, and he utters a low growl in greeting. He ambled over and shoves his snout against Byleth’s chest, blowing hot air from his nostrils all over her. She grins and pets him affectionately and then there’s a sharp gust of wind and Claude’s own great beast is half-gliding over to join them. Najima carries herself with an almost impossible elegance in spite of her size and she lowers her head to let Claude pet her thick neck gently, brilliant alabaster scales almost sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. They’re properly saddled and ready to depart which at least means Claude isn’t too distracted by his disquiet to do what needs to be done. 

“Hand me that brush,” Byleth says, pointing. Claude does so, picking one up for himself and together they set about cleaning the dust and dirt from between their mounts’ scales. They work in companionable silence for a while before Byleth speaks. With Claude hidden behind Najima’s considerable bulk, she hopes he’ll have the courage to be honest when she can’t see him. 

“You’re worried.”

A sigh. “No. But also, yes.”

“About announcing your sovereignty?”

“Yeah.”

Byleth chips a stubborn clot of dirt out from the scales below Reus’ right eye. “You think it will change things.”

“I know it will. I’m just thinking about how  _ much _ it will change things.”

Byleth hums in acknowledgment. “You have nothing to worry about from the Deer. They’ll be surprised, but you can’t really blame them. But they trust you, and once you explain to them, they’ll understand.”

“I know. I’m not worried about that. I’m not  _ worried _ . I’m just… wary. It’s an unknown quantity. I’ve done what I can, but I can’t plan for everything and that’s what’s got me messed up about it.”

Byleth ducks under Reus’ chin and Claude is perched on Najima’s bent leg as she licks her claws clean, absently scratching at the soft skin at the base of her antlers. He looks up at Byleth and his expression is still guarded, but there’s a softness in his eyes that reminds Byleth that he’s still so very young, a boy who’s been through hell, a child of two very different kingdoms doing his best to unite them both. He has a lot on his shoulders and Byleth…  _ understands.  _

“My first month after my coronation,” Byleth says, leaning back against Reus’ sun-warm flank, “was awful. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing and honestly, sometimes I still don’t. I wasn’t taught to rule, I wasn’t raised with even the remotest possibility of that happening. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m what the nobility call  _ rough around the edges. _ ” Claude cracks a half-smile at that and it’s the most genuine expression Byleth has seen on his face in days. “I would’ve been overwhelmed if not for Seteth. And Flayn. And the Deer. I’ve only gotten this far because I had help. And you… You‘ve convinced yourself that you’re doing this alone. But you’re not.” She reaches under the collar of her shirt, pulling out the leather throng that hangs there, that has been there since the night Claude left for Almyra all those months ago. At the end of it, glinting in the light, is the ring Claude had pressed into her palm; a promise and a wish. His eyes snap to it, watching it as it slowly twists in the seabourne winds. 

“I’m with you,” she tells him, tucking the ring back under her shirt. “Whatever happens. You’re so close to your dreams, Claude. Don’t lose hope now—“

He moves so quickly Byleth has no time to brace herself, no time to prepare for whatever it is he’s going to do. His hands seize her face, quick and firm but always so, so gentle, and then his lips are on hers and she’s clutching at his collar as she flounders for balance. Chest to chest, breath stolen, she clings to him as his lips move insistently against hers, edged with a desperation she’s never felt from him before, an edge she could easily lose herself to, at another time. But then the force of his momentum finally tips their precarious balance and they’re toppling over backwards into the dirt and instead of kissing they’re laughing breathlessly in a tangled heap while their wyverns watch over them with amusement in their glittering eyes. 

Claude pushes himself up from her, propping himself up on his hands as he smiles down at her, soft and  _ real.  _ “You’ve gotten really good at pep talks.”

Byleth huffs a laugh, shoving him off of her so she can sit up. “I should hope so, I’ve given enough of them. Feel better?”

“Much.” He hauls himself to his feet and then yanks her up as well, brushing the dirt from her back. “I don’t know how I ever thought I’d be able to do this without you. You won’t catch me making the same mistake twice.”

  
  


—

  
  


The next morning, the royal retinue departs the Aquatic Capital for Garreg Mach Monastery, Claude and Byleth leading on their wyverns. It gives them time to talk away from their guard, gliding along sedately as they make their way toward the Monastery. Mostly they discuss Byleth’s upcoming speech, and while she’s by no means shy, public speaking still makes her uncomfortable. She’s gotten so much more expressive since her arrival at the Monastery all those years ago, but she can still only truly manage sincerity around those she knows and loves well. Thankfully, Claude is charismatic enough for the both of them, and he has plenty of ideas about how her speech should go. 

By the time the sun dips behind the Oghma Mountains, the Monastery is already in view and they reach the town below it. People gasp and wave as they pass and Byleth does her best to smile and wave regally as is expected of her, but the smile is more of a grimace, which Claude delights in teasing her about. 

Once they enter the courtyard of the Monastery, Byleth feels something in her chest loosen, in much the same way as it had when she’d caught sight of Najima during the siege on Derdriu. Relief, or something very much like it, and Byleth wonders if this is what it feels like to come home. They’re too tired from the journey to do much more than feed and water their wyverns, and Byleth is eager to sleep before preparations for the festival begin in earnest, but when she makes to head for her old room, one of the servants directs her towards the Archbishop’s quarters and she freezes. 

“Majesty,” Claude says at once, offering a low bow. “Could I possibly have a moment of your time before you retire?” He smiles winningly at the steward trying to usher Byleth towards Rhea’s old room and steers her away. “Apologies, but I must steal your sovereign away for a moment. I’ll see her to her quarters afterwards, you have my word.”

It’s a bald-faced lie, but Claude is accomplished at misdirection and also at detecting Byleth’s discomfort before she even says a word. He guides them through the candlelit halls towards the dormitories, waiting until they’re out of earshot of the stewards before he sighs and slows to a stop. “I forgot they’d try and foist her old chambers on you. Should’ve seen it coming honestly. You can stay in my room, if you want. It’ll cause a bit of a stir, but I can relocate to one of the other rooms until we figure out an alternative. By? You okay?”

She is and she isn’t. The idea of inhabiting Rhea’s old rooms is… discomfiting, to say the least. Right now she doesn’t want to even think about that, would at least appreciate the chance to  _ renovate _ before moving in and living under the shadow of Rhea’s memory. She’ll do that anyway, for as long as she’s Archbishop, but doing so in Rhea’s chambers seems a bit  _ off piste.  _

But more than that, she’s suddenly struck by how wrongfooted she feels about the appearance she and Claude have been unconsciously presenting. Without a word they’ve come to a silent agreement that to outside eyes, they’re friends, comrades. And when she gives her speech during the Solstice, Fódlan will know if his title and the alliance they will be brokering between their respective kingdoms. Duty first, as it has always been. They’ll know nothing of the ring Byleth keeps close to her still heart, know nothing of the place beneath it Claude himself occupies right in the core of her being. And Byleth is distressed by that. Claude is not just a  _ friend.  _

She loves him. But what  _ is  _ he?

“No,” Byleth says and Claude frowns at her, brows pinching with concern and she realises she’s answered poorly. “No, I’m  _ fine,  _ but— No.  _ No.  _ Enough of this. Enough.”

“You’re worrying me, Teach,” Claude says with an awkward laugh. He reaches up to ruffle his hair in that anxious way he always has and Byleth can’t  _ stand  _ this anymore!

Time to be selfish, she thinks. Enough is  _ enough.  _

She grabs his hand before it can bury itself in his unruly curls, yanks him along behind her as she heads for the stairs to the second floor dormitories, prompting a yelp of surprise from her clueless companion. His rooms are ready for his arrival, a lone candle lit on the desk and the bedsheets fresh and turned down. There are fresh flowers on the sideboard but no trace of the messy student who had once occupied this rooms, all those years ago, none of his books strewn across the floor, or the clothes stuffed haphazardly into the trunk at the end of the bed. It’s a guest room, bare and impersonal, and Byleth hates that, but it’s only for tonight. 

“By—  _ Byleth _ . Would you please tell me what’s going on?” Claude sounds perturbed and when Byleth turns to face him, his handsome face is cast half into shadow by the sparse light from the candle, rendering his tight expression even more pronounced in his distress. Byleth takes a deep breath, trying to order the tumultuous thoughts whirling through her head so she can make her point in a way he will understand. 

“I’m… I waited.” Byleth folds her arms then lets them drop, out of sorts and unsure of how to hold herself. She wants to be open, as hard as that still is for her, even with him, but she wants something between them so she can guard her heart if she needs to. She’s no  _ good  _ at this and she tries so hard not to think badly of Jeralt’s memory but  _ some  _ kind of training on social interactions would have been  _ great.  _ “For you. You went to Almyra, and I waited. I became queen, I united Fódlan. And I  _ waited.  _ And I’m still waiting. I don’t know what  _ for,  _ but I’m so, so tired of it. I told you that you were close to your dream and I truly believe that. But I’d like to know how… How close we are to mine.”

Claude is silent for a long moment, looking at her with those eyes that see far too much. As unsettling as it is, Byleth let’s him see her. She’s not going to hide any more. This is it. Cards on the table. “And what is your dream?” Claude finally asks with care. 

“You,” Byleth says. “Me. Us.” The words, once out, click into place deep inside her and that’s it. That’s  _ it.  _ “I love you and that’s— That’s  _ hard  _ for me. Not loving you, that was easier than anything I’ve ever done, scarily easy and I don’t know what to do with the sheer amount of  _ everything  _ that I feel for you. But what do we do now? You have Almyra. I have Fódlan. You’ve tied us both into duties that will demand everything of us. When you’re ruling in Almyra and I’m ruling in Fódlan, what’s to become of us? I see you for a week every few months? We gaze at each other across the room at whatever functions we attend together? I don’t  _ want  _ that. I don’t want it, Claude.”

And Claude keeps looking at her. His eyes shift from distressed to calculating in a way that prickles her skin, as though he’s looking at a foe on a battlefield rather than at a friend, as though he’s cataloguing this weakness so that he might later exploit it and ruin her. She knows he never would, never could, but the way he’s looking at her now is new and, though she’s seen him aim that look at hundreds of people over the years, it’s never been directed at her before. Not once. 

He takes a step forward, slowly, as though he’s trying not to alarm a timid animal, and he reaches out a hand to her with that same careful slowness, and Byleth holds still as she waits for him to touch her. He doesn’t, not explicitly, but his warm fingers brush against the skin of her throat where her pulse is hammering wildly as they find that leather throng and lift it up over her head, ring hanging heavily on its thread. Byleth’s chest seizes as he slips it off of her and she very nearly snatches it back, but she lets him take it from her, watches as he snaps the leather with one sharp tug, freeing the ring from it and casting the thread aside. He reaches for her hand - her left - and slowly brings it up between them, sliding the ring gently onto her fourth finger where it sits snugly, perfectly, against her feverish skin. 

“I never thought I’d get this far,” Claude murmurs, head bent over their joined hands. “There was always so much in the way of my dreams, I thought they’d always just stay dreams. And then I met you, and my dreams were suddenly achievable and I took you for granted, as both my teacher and my friend. I ignored everything you achieved, everything you suffered, and focused only on what you could do for _ me _ . And even when I’d fallen for you, my dreams were still more important than anything we could’ve had. I spent so long wrapped up in my ambitions that I let you think that, at the end of it, you and I would be apart, stealing moments whenever we could.” Claude shudders and Byleth only notices because the movement ripples through his hands and into hers. “Truth is… None of this would’ve been possible without you. And I owe you more than I can ever hope to repay. So instead I hope you’ll settle for my heart. Because it’s yours, so fully and completely I don’t even think I’d remember how to keep it beating if not for you.”

Byleth makes a sound she can’t ever remember uttering before: a strange, unsteady gasp pushed out past her lips, an escape of emotions she doesn’t have enough room inside her body to feel fully. At that sound Claude finally looks up, and his eyes are blazing like a solar flare. “We’re not going to rule apart,” he tells her with a conviction in his voice that could inspire armies to fight for him - has in fact - to lay down their lives in service to him. “I told you there was no way I was going to let you go and I meant every word. Fódlan’s future -  _ our  _ future - we’ll witness it side by side. No more distance, no more waiting. If you’ll have me, I’d love nothing more than to be your—“

This time, it’s Byleth who moves first, quick like the strike of a snake and twice as deadly, cutting off Claude’s earnest vow with eager lips that crash against his with all the hungry desperation of a woman starved. Her hands push into his hair, fingers twisting in silky curls as she breathes a thousand affirmations into his lungs, raw and heartfelt and  _ true.  _

Claude holds up well under her onslaught, hands snapping down to her waist as he staggers back under the force of her affection. His lips part at once and heat surges between them at the first burning slide of tongues together, a single breath shared between lungs that stutter and catch with the intensity of it. They’ve spent weeks, years, dancing around each other in a well choreographed quickstep of duty and demand and it’s left them both unsure of where they truly stand in each other’s lives. But if there’s one thing Byleth believes, when her forced piety fails and faith in anything holy seems ineffectual and weak, it’s that her true place in the world is by his side. 

They fall, inevitably, when Claude takes a step back towards the bed, trying in vain to find more stable footing while Byleth tries equally as hard to throw him further off balance. She succeeds when the edge of the bed hits the back of Claude’s knees and he collapses backwards with a startled huff against her lips, hands grabbing at her waist to pull her down with him as he falls. Byleth throws her hands down to catch herself before she accidentally headbutts him, coming to an inelegant stop half-sprawled across his chest, legs either side of his thighs. She pushes herself up and shakes her hair out of her face and when she looks down at Claude, his cheeks are dusted faintly pink and he’s gazing up at her with something in his depthless eyes that makes her stomach flutter unsteadily with how badly she  _ wants— _

Oh. So that’s what this is. 

A beat passes, and then two, then three, and Byleth rests a palm against the centre of Claude’s chest, feeling the way his heart thunders against his rib cage in double time. He swallows audibly and his hands come to rest at her waist, barely touching her as though she’s something intangible that will disappear in a moment. When Byleth flicks her eyes back up to his face, the pink of his cheeks has spread up to the tips of his ears and he offers her a crooked smile, screwing his eyes tightly shut as he takes a deep breath. 

“You’ll have to bear with me,” he says, fingers twitching at her waist. “I’m being confronted with all the inappropriate fantasies of my teenage years at once and it’s… A lot.”

Byleth huffs a quiet laugh, running her hands down the front of his shirt, calluses on her hands catching on the soft silk. “How does reality match up?”

Claude grins, eyes still closed. “I’m having at least six separate moments about it.” Byleth smiles fondly even though he can’t see her, endlessly endeared by him and the sincerity he only ever offers her. She leans down slowly and Claude cracks open one eye as the bed shifts beneath them, watching her from beneath the lid as she lowers her mouth to the sliver of skin visible above the neckline of his shirt. She kisses him there, on the half-hidden curve of his collarbone, and Claude’s breath stutters in response. 

“ _ Byleth, _ ” he chokes out, and everything happens rather quickly after that. 

Eager hands push and pull at clothes in clumsy attempts at synchronicity, tearing fabric when laces and fastenings refuse to come easily undone. Byleth learns what it feels like to have warm lips at her throat, to have the searing heat of a tongue burning a path along her jugular and the enticing prick of teeth in her skin. She learns that having large palms pressed against the curve of her bare spine makes her breathless and dizzy, in much the same way as it does to have the incriminating evidence of Claude’s arousal pressed against her thigh. She finds that she cannot control the shivering of her body when curious fingers explore her chest, trail down the softness of her stomach, then lower, lower, and then she finds she cannot control the gasp that slips from her lips when Claude presses  _ inside _ , curling clever fingers in a way that makes her entire body arch. Everything is new in a way she cannot guard against, leaving her startlingly vulnerable in a way she finds almost intoxicating. 

Claude revels in the touch of her skin, in the array of scars that mark her body like a map of her victories and her struggles. He holds her in his arms as his hands and mouth learn her body, cataloguing her reactions so that he  _ can _ ruin her, but not in the way she had feared he would. The ruin lies in the way her mind fractures until all she can focus on is pleasure and  _ him _ , rocking in his lap as he undoes her so completely she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to come back to herself. 

The air between them is burning hot and filled with stuttering gasps neither of them can restrain. Claude’s arms around her are the only things holding Byleth together when she lowers herself down and Claude sinks  _ in _ , pressing inside fully and completely in a way that causes her lungs to seize up and her stomach to stutter and clench. She cups his jaw in trembling hands, lips brushing his as she fights for breaths that won’t come easily, and when Claude utters a low, broken moan, the likes of which she’s never heard from him before, her nerves light up like oil-soaked kindling, sparking pleasure down her spine in waves. 

Pressed together as they are, Claude gasping against her throat, she can feel the rapid thrill of his heartbeat against her chest, so hard it’s almost as though her own heart is beating in tandem, awakened from its eternal stillness just so it can answer his with an honesty she never thought she was capable of. Helpless, overcome, she drags her nails down his spine, clinging to him as the pleasure singing through her blood makes her body arch. Claude hisses in response, moaning raggedly and sinking his teeth into her shoulder so deeply she cries out at the deliciousness of the pain. It’s too much but not enough, and her nails dig grooves into Claude’s back as she tries to ground herself, to make sense of the sheer rapturous pleasure coursing through her. 

Her divinity had let her turn back the hands of time on a whim. This, though, what they’re doing here together, stops it altogether. One perfect moment stretches out into infinity as Byleth’s body burns incandescently with pleasure, trembling so hard she has to catch her lower lip between her teeth to stop them chattering together. New warmth fills her as Claude gives a strangled sob against her throat, hands clutching at her tight enough to bruise. A century passes in the span of a single second, and when Byleth finally returns to herself, Claude is whispering prayers against feverish skin that is slowly beginning to cool as their sweat dries in the cool night air. 

There are no more words after that. Even the soft promises Claude presses to her skin are nearly silent in the aftermath of their coupling. She feels replete, calmed and satisfied right down to her bones. Lazy fingers find Claude’s in the dark when the candle finally burns itself out and Byleth finds renewed comfort in the slow rise and fall of Claude’s even breaths. 

And then she sleeps, adrift in bliss. 

  
  


—

  
  


When dawn breaks, Byleth stirs with it, rubbing her eyes as sunlight filters through the split in the curtains. She yawns so widely her jaw cracks with it, then stubbornly nuzzles her face back into the pillow, humming when warm arms wrap around her chest and stomach and the presence behind her gives a sleepy mumble into the back of her neck. She stretches as best she can without disturbing him unduly, relishing the pleasant ache in her limbs, but even with her attempt at care, Claude stirs at her back, dropping slow, gentle kisses along her shoulder.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles into her skin, nudging a leg between hers as he pulls her tighter against his warm chest. 

“Go back to sleep,” Byleth whispers, laying a hand over the one curled protectively round her stomach. “It’s still early.”

Claude mumbles something inaudible, nuzzling further into her hair. “Warm,” he sighs, brushing his lips across the back of her neck. “Soft.”

Byleth laughs quietly, tracing her fingers absently over Claude’s arm where it lies across her chest. “Sleep,” she tells him, settling back down into his secure embrace. “While we can.”

Claude sighs again and murmurs something soft in a tongue she doesn’t understand. He falls still for long enough that Byleth starts to slowly drift off again, but then the hand on her stomach twitches, inching slowly lower until it draws out a soft gasp from her throat. 

“Claude—“

“Mmmmm?” He mouths at her neck lazily, nudging his leg more firmly against her as his fingers flutter lightly between her legs. “No?”

Byleth doesn’t curse him but it’s a near thing, stopped only by the delicious coil of pleasure starting to simmer low in her abdomen. She shifts her top leg slightly, giving him more room to work, but his movements stay slow and lazy, the pads of his fingers barely ghosting against her. The hand across her chest moves too, just as slowly, circling her breasts, caressing her everywhere but where she wants him. 

“Claude,” she says again, but this time it’s less of an admonishment and more of a plea. The sound of it stirs him fully into wakefulness, or, more accurately, one specific part of him. 

His teeth find her earlobe and he tugs playfully with a low growl, voice rougher and deeper with sleep. Byleth arches against him, languid and slow, and slips a hand between them to return his attentions. His breath catches, fluttering against her ear, and he moves his fingers against her in earnest, all but purring as they move together.

Outside the sun continues to rise and, when the stewards find the Archbishop’s quarters empty, it gives the lovers enough time to savour the morning properly. But duty inevitably calls, and it is with no small amount of reluctance that Byleth dresses, presses a soft kiss to Claude’s pliant lips, and slips out of his room. 

She finds Seteth in the audience chamber and even the disapproving glare he gives her isn’t enough to dampen her spirits. He folds his arms and gives her a once over, taking in her unbrushed hair and creased clothes, but only sighs in response. 

“If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you could give me a warning the next time you disappear?” He chastises. “So that we don’t comb the Monastery for you in fear for your safety?”

“I will,” Byleth promises and delights in the mildly disgusted face Seteth pulls when she confirms that this will most definitely happen again. 

To pacify him, Byleth immediately sets to work assisting with the festival preparations, helping the staff to deck the halls with garlands and baubles in every shape and colour and size. The staff balk at her presence, insisting that they can manage just fine, thank you, your Grace, but she waves them away easily, set on helping however she can, reminding those among them that not too long ago she was once a member of staff here the same as them. They stop protesting after that and, though they don’t quite relax entirely, they don’t seem too put off by her presence. 

Claude makes his appearance just before noon, sweeping into the ballroom with a crate in his hands and a trail of servants on his heels. Byleth looks over from where she’s helping secure another garland to the wall, balanced rather precariously atop a ladder and halfway to giving several staff members a heart attack. Claude winks at her and sets the crate down, strolling over to her and leaning on the lower rungs of the ladder. 

“Claude,” Seteth says, appearing so suddenly out of nowhere before Claude can speak that he nearly topples the ladder over. “I require your assistance, if I may.” 

Byleth smothers the grin that threatens to split her face when Claude visibly struggles with the effort of not telling Seteth exactly where he can stick his  _ requirements,  _ but he acquiesces if only because Seteth currently has the power to make his life very difficult if he refuses. He tosses Byleth a pained grimace when Seteth turns away and follows with shoulders dropping in defeat. Byleth shakes her head fondly and ties another ribbon to the garland. 

She doesn’t see Claude for lunch, taking it out on the star terrace alone because she knows full well the fit the staff would have if she attempted to sit in the dining hall with them. She sips tea and listens to the people below as they finish decorating the grounds, finally allowing the excitement over the impending festivities to wash over her. In two days’ time the Monastery will be abuzz with hundreds of guests for feasting and merriment as they celebrate the Solstice, and Byleth intends to enjoy it in the company of friends who won’t treat her differently because of her relatively new title. 

With that in mind she turns her attention to finishing off her speech, flicking through the notes Claude had given her before they left the capital. She resists the urge to grade his work, and even though his handwriting is still appalling, he has some good points that she makes sure to include, though she shortens them in places because, while she doesn’t  _ hate _ public speaking, she’s not a verbose person and doesn’t want to be speaking for longer than necessary. 

She hands the speech to Seteth after lunch and he gives it a look over and pronounces it acceptable, but when she inquires after Claude’s whereabouts he’s less than forthcoming. 

“He’s assisting with the preparations,” is all he says, handing the papers back to her. “But far more importantly, the first of your guests have arrived. Perhaps you’d like to meet them?”

Down in the entrance hall, Hilda and Marianne have arrived and it’s with a loud scream that Hilda throws her arms around Byleth the moment she sees her, Marianne following her partner’s excited greeting with a more reticent and gentle embrace. It warms Byleth’s heart to welcome them to the Monastery, welcome them  _ home _ , and they dine together in the gardens while they talk of the past months and the paths their lives have taken. 

Claude makes a brief appearance, jacket stained with some strange liquid and glitter in his hair. He lets Hilda kids his cheek and nods hello to Marianne before scarpering into the hedges when Seteth calls out for him. Byleth feigns ignorance when Seteth asks where his quarry has gone, sharing a look with Hilda when he stalks off to continue his search. 

“Don’t ask,” Byleth tells her. “Seteth has something of a vendetta.”

“Well, that just makes me more curious,” Hilda says, sipping her tea. 

“I’m sure. But trust me when I say you really don’t want to know.”

The next day brings Leonie and Lorenz, and then Ignatz and Lysithea, Raphael and Maya, who is so much like her brother that Byleth warms to her immediately. Then in a near constant trickle, more and more of their guests arrive, all her former students and friends and colleagues, faces she has missed dearly and she welcomes them all with a full heart. The Monastery is once again full of life and warmth, the way it had been long before the war, and excitement mounts as the day of the Solstice draws ever closer. 

Finally, when everyone has arrived and the sun sets on the longest day of the year, Byleth takes to the pulpit, clad in robes befitting her station - with Hilda’s trademark flare thrown in - and addresses her people with head held high. She catches the eyes of her friends in the crowd and is bolstered by their presence. 

“Beloved,” she says, magically amplified voice echoing through the hall. “From the bottom of my heart, I thank each and every one of you for your presence here.”

She tells them what they must already know, of how humbled she is in the face of their resilience after the war, the siege on Derdriu, their cooperation in the aftermath of so much desolation. She tells them of her plans to reform the Church of Seiros, of her plans for the future of a united Fódlan. She tells them that they will find her in their towns and villages as they finish rebuilding their lives, of the reopening of the Monastery as a school for anyone and everyone with a desire to learn, as well as plans for an orphanage for all those left without families after the war. She tells them that Almyra will henceforth be known as Fódlan’s sister kingdom, and she introduces, to wild cheers of support and no small amount of surprise, the King of Almyra, resplendent in the robes of his home as he bows to them all and pledges his nation’s allegiance to Fódlan and her Queen. She thanks them all with a sincerity she hopes they can see is truly heartfelt, and then steps aside so that Claude might say his piece. 

“To those of you I count among my closest friends,” Claude says, voice low and reverent despite the calm expression on his face, “I know this may come as a shock. But believe me when I say the only change this will bring is the betterment of both our kingdoms. We are one people despite the borders between us, and it is my dearest wish to see those borders brought down, to bring down the fortress at Fódlan’s Throat and raise an embassy in its place. I want nothing more than to see those of Almyran and Fódlan heritage both living happily among each other and I hope that you will lend us your aid as your Queen and I work to make this dream a reality. 

“I hope that you will continue to see us as we have always been; as your allies and friends. Which is why I am overjoyed to announce that Almyra and Fódlan will be formally united under the bonds of matrimony, for your Queen has agreed to marry me.”

The applause that follows is cacophonous and deafening and even Byleth isn’t able to stop the smile that spreads across her face as Claude extends a hand to her, clasping it tightly in his as they face their people together, united. In the crowd she can see her precious Deer, misty-eyed and jubilant as they cheer for them both, and with a wave of her hand and a joyous command, she declares the celebrations begun. 

  
  


—

  
  


The Golden Deer surround them as soon as the feast is underway, embracing them both and offering heartfelt congratulations. Lorenz is the only one who doesn’t hug either of them, staring at Claude with a gobsmacked expression as he wrestles with the fact that Claude is King. 

“All this time,” he splutters, floundering as though doused with ice water. “All this time you were a  _ Prince _ .”

“I told you I had my secrets,” Claude shrugs, winking with the most infuriating smile Byleth has ever seen him wear. Lorenz continues to splutter but Leonie shoves him aside and shakes Claude’s hand heartily. 

“He’s happy for you,” she says, amused. “He’s just having a moment, please excuse him.”

“You  _ have  _ to let me make your wedding jewellery,” Hilda says, clutching Byleth’s arm hard enough to make her wince. “No, scratch that, I’m going to design your whole outfit. I have so many ideas, you’re going to look  _ divine—“ _

“Now just a minute,” Lorenz finally manages, expression shifting from flabbergasted to affronted. “If  _ anyone _ is to plan a wedding befitting royalty, the task will surely fall to yours truly.”

“You can  _ fight  _ me for it, Gloucester,” Hilda says, a feral glint in her eye. 

“I call dibs on planning the feast!” Raphael booms, sweeping both Byleth and Claude up into a bear hug at the same time. 

“Perhaps I could draw the wedding portrait,” Ignatz offers, eyes shining. “It would definitely go down as one of the most celebrated events in Fódlan’s history. I’d be honoured to be part of it.”

“Looks like the Golden Deer are planning a wedding!” Lysithea crows to the amusement of all. Byleth can’t help but laugh, brimming with joy and love for every single one of them. 

The festivities continue on through the night and into the early morning, guest and performers alike dancing and revelling into well past sunrise. While Byleth has never been one for crowds, the mood of the celebrations are infectious, and wine and ale flow plentifully which helps to ease her rather socially inept nature. From the stalls selling trinkets and honeyed treats, to the performers swallowing fire and conjuring fireworks in their palms, Byleth makes sure to enjoy everything, committing it all to memory until her thoughts are too muddled by alcohol to stay coherent. Through it all Claude never leaves her side, and when the dancing devolves from elegant ballroom waltzes into drunken, joyful gambolling, he sweeps her away from the oppressive crowd, up to the star balcony where their only companions are the stars slowly giving way to the dawn and the golden, rising sun. Below them, the festivities carry on, and they dance together under the dawn glow to the faint sounds of music, twirling together and laughing and happy, celebrating anything and everything they care to name. 

“We’ll travel to Almyra for midwinter,” Claude says, twirling Byleth in a grand spin that flares the skirts of her robes in ripples of cornflower blue satin. “We’ll celebrate in the palace with my family.”

“And you’ll cheer as I drink them all under the table,” Byleth laughs, stumbling into the warm embrace of his arms as he sweeps her into a low, graceful dip. 

“I’ll show you the markets and the mountains and the forests,” Claude promises, circling her as she pirouettes clumsily and laughs all the while. “We’ll fly to Sreng in the spring and spend a month on the coast, collecting seashells and swimming and making love in the sand.”

“And you’ll complain when the sand starts to chafe,” Byleth tells him, shouting in surprise when he lifts her high in the air, spinning them round and round and round until the world of daybreak around them is a blue-gold blur. 

“I’ll never complain again in my life,” Claude declares, letting her drop back into the safety of his arms even as he staggers drunkenly on unsteady legs. “I’ll spend the rest of my days shouting praises to the heavens because Byleth Eisner will be my wife!”

Gravity finally wins the war and they collapse in an ungainly heap of satin and silk, breathless and with faces aching from the strength of their shared laughter. Claude rolls until he’s half sprawled over Byleth, peppering her face with kisses until she’s gasping for breath and has to shove his face away. Even then he refuses to move, choosing instead to rest his brow to hers, eyes sliding closed as they catch their breath. When he opens them again, they sparkle in the dawn light and a few stray tears drip down his cheeks. 

“It was worth it,” he says softly. “It was worth all of it, to be able to see you laugh like this. As hard as it was… I’d do it all again if it meant I could see you happy.”

Byleth shushes him, kissing the tears away with clumsy but gentle lips. “We don’t have to. It’s over now, really over. All that’s left is… the rest of our lives.”

Claude hums and sits up slowly, eyes unfocused as he struggles to his feet and tries to pull Byleth up with him. It takes a few tries but then they’re on their feet, leaning against each other for support. “The rest of our lives,” Claude echoes, gazing out at the horizon. “I want all of it, I don’t care what it is. The good, the bad, the brilliant, and the awful. I want all of it as long as it’s with you.”

“Careful,” Byleth warns him, leaning her head on his shoulder and pulling his arm around her own. “Keep making grand declarations like that and you’ll have nothing left to use in your vows.”

Claude offers her a somewhat manic grin. “Bold of you to assume my vows won’t just be ‘suck it, Sylvain’.”

That startles another laugh from her, genuine but tinged with enough exhaustion that Claude tugs her closer and begins the now arduous journey of getting them both back inside and down onto some sort of horizontal surface. The nearest and only room left for them now that their guests are all present are the Archbishop’s chambers, and Byleth is too tired and too drunk to care much about that. They stumble there together, shedding as many layers as they can so that when they reach the bed they can just collapse onto it carelessly. 

“I love you,” Claude murmurs, wrapping her into his arms the moment their backs hit the mattress. Byleth hums, yawning widely and nuzzling into his chest where his heart is beating slow and steady and constant. 

“Love you,” she mumbles, hoping that it comes out more coherently than it sounds. Judging by the soft rumble of his laughter, it does not, but he kisses the top of her head so she knows he’s understood her anyway. 

“Sleep well,” he tells her, voice muffled by her hair. “Dream new things for us to achieve. The more impossible, the better.”

Byleth can’t do much else but sigh happily and tangle their legs together. She feels as though she’s already dreaming, caught in that wonderful place between dreams and reality where absolutely anything seems possible. Dimly she realises that that’s how it always feels when Claude is beside her, as though anything can happen if she wishes for it hard enough. 

_ Perhaps this is true happiness _ , she thinks as sleep beckons her into its seductive embrace.  _ Having the power to reach for whatever you want, and knowing that there’s nothing else you desire.  _

Maybe a day will come when Byleth wants more than what she has. Maybe a day will come when she decides she’s no longer complete and wants something new and different and exciting. But right now she is content and she knows that, if that day does come, she’ll have the King of Dreams beside her. 

  
  
  



End file.
